


The Days of Darkness Past

by Aggie2011



Series: Darkness to Dawn Universe [14]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Aramis is a mess, Athos and Porthos let down, Brotherhood, Constance is a good bro, Gen, PTSD, Savoy, So much angst, but he's our mess, but then fix it, companion and tag to The Good Soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-07 19:30:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 42,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20981189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aggie2011/pseuds/Aggie2011
Summary: Old wounds and traumatic memories. Old betrayals and older loyalties. Secrets revealed and promises broken. One man's return threatens to destroy a brotherhood. A companion and tag to "The Good Soldier".





	1. I will not make the same mistakes

_Holy crap! I haven't posted in AGES. Lots of life change here, and I won't bore you with details! haha but this fic has been in the works for a while and honestly, it was one of the first fics I knew I wanted to write for this fandom way back when I first watched the show!_

_This is a companion fic to Season 1, Episode 4 "The Good Soldier". That angst-fest was one of the many, many reasons I fell in love with our Muskey boys and more specifically, Aramis. This will follow various events of the episode (but not all of them, it isn't a transcript) and then the direct aftermath as I try to delve into Aramis' mind and emotions as well as that of Athos and Porthos as they all deal with Marsac and his return. If you've read my fic "In the Darkness is Born the Dawn" then you know that fic covers the events of Savoy and the aftermath. To fully understand the depth of the relationship Treville and Aramis had before Savoy, then you'd need to have read that. If you don't want to, well, just know they were like father and son and Aramis was being groomed to take over the regiment one day. That, of course, all ended with Savoy. This fic, in a way, follows that one as we address the ultimate fallout five years later. So yeah, many chapters, over 40K words...here we go._

_Special thanks to my wonderful, patient beta _ **Arlothia** _, who studiously helped me polish this up and make it what it is._

* * *

_For there to be betrayal, there would have to have been trust first.  
**Suzanne Collins**_

* * *

Laughter floated up through the window, but Treville hardly noticed.

He stared down at the letter in his hands, reading it through for the third time.

He was coming here. After all this time, he was finally returning to court.

"Come on, Porthos! Catch him!" d'Artagnan's voice rang out cheerfully from down in the yard.

The exclamation was followed by the sounds of a scuffle and the familiar bright bark of Aramis' laughter.

"You'll have to be faster than that!" the marksman taunted.

Another scuffle, a Spanish curse, and then Porthos' booming laughter.

"Let him breathe," Athos instructed dryly.

Annoyingly intrigued, Treville moved to the door and out onto the balcony. He braced his hands on the rail, letter still in hand, and looked down over the yard.

Athos was sitting on the bench at the long table. D'Artagnan was sitting on the table next to him, boots on the bench next to Athos. In the yard, Porthos and Aramis were circling each other, both wearing wide, playful grins. Both were covered in dirt and sweat, but didn't show any signs of fatigue.

"I hope you enjoyed that," Aramis taunted suddenly. "You won't catch me again."

Porthos scoffed.

"You talk too much," he accused lightly.

"I would argue the rest of the world merely doesn't talk _enough_," Aramis replied cheerfully.

He'd barely gotten the rejoinder out before Porthos was lunging at him. Aramis danced out of reach, crouching and spinning away before Porthos could get a hand on him.

D'Artagnan laughed.

"Nice footwork!" he teased from the safety of the table. "Are you dancing or sparring?"

"If you want to be a good Musketeer," Aramis lectured with mock arrogance, "you must learn that the two are not mutually exclusive!" Another quick bout of footwork kept him out of Porthos' clutches once again. "Ha! See! They can't hurt you if they can't catch-_merde!"_

Porthos' foot suddenly swept Aramis' right out from under him. The marksman landed on his back in the dirt, hissing out another Spanish curse. Porthos loomed over him and Treville could see the defensive reaction building in Aramis' posture.

This was usually when someone ended up with an accidentally bloody nose or bruised eye. That was the last thing he needed from his best men when they stood parade in the king's presence tomorrow.

"You four!" Treville barked abruptly.

Porthos froze, having just knocked away a kick from Aramis, and looked up. On the ground, Aramis arched back, angling his head to look up at Treville upside down. At the table, the other two turned to give him their attention as well.

"My office," Treville ordered simply. He headed back into his office without another word, fully expecting immediate obedience. He had only just settled behind his desk when the clamoring sound of four sets of boots alerted him to their arrival. Porthos and Aramis were whispering about something, both still flushed with exertion. As they lined up before him, Aramis snorted at something Porthos said before forcefully sobering himself and falling into something loosely resembling parade rest.

Athos shot the two a quelling glance and then met Treville's gaze. On his other side, d'Artagnan stood the most formally, obviously painfully cognizant of the fact that he had not yet earned his commission.

"You're to report for parade tomorrow morning at the palace," Treville explained without preamble. "The king is expecting a visitor."

"Who is it?" Athos asked.

Treville held Athos' gaze as he replied.

"The Duke of Savoy." He refused to look at Aramis, to see whatever reaction came from the revelation. But in his periphery, he still saw Aramis' posture shift, straightening ever so slightly. "He's not been at court in five years. The king has invited him back now to negotiate a treaty."

"So we're a show of power?" d'Artagnan asked curiously.

"You're the king's personal guard," Treville replied immediately. "You're not there to look pretty, you're there to keep Their Majesties safe."

"Of course," d'Artagnan agreed contritely.

"When?" Athos asked.

"We report to the palace at first light."

Athos nodded.

Treville risked a glance at the others. Aramis was staring steadily back at him, but immediately looked away when Treville returned the gaze. Next to him, Porthos was side eyeing Aramis, but trying to look like he wasn't. With a sigh, Treville looked back at the papers on his desk.

"Dismissed."

He refused to look up and watch them go.

* * *

"Is anyone else hungry?" d'Artagnan asked as they filed down the stairs.

"The Wren?" Athos offered, leading the way towards the gate.

Porthos opened his mouth to heartily agree, but paused when Aramis spoke up suddenly.

"Not tonight, my friends," the marksman said. "As covered in dirt and sweat as I am, I'm surely not fit for human company. I intend to take advantage of the bath house while the rest of the Garrison is out for the evening."

Porthos looked sharply at his brother, but Aramis wouldn't meet his gaze. With a wide smile on his face, the marksman was backing towards the stairs.

"I'll see you in the morning," he called cheerfully as he started up the steps.

Some instinct in Porthos flared in warning and he immediately looked back at Athos.

"I'm in a worse state than he is, somehow. I'm going to stay back too. Have a drink for me, eh?"

Athos studied him for a moment, but Porthos just shrugged sheepishly, unwilling to draw attention to Aramis and whatever might or might not be going through his head. Finally, Athos relaxed.

"I'll have two," he promised with a smirk as he and d'Artagnan headed for the gate together.

Porthos watched them go for a moment before turning to the stairs and following Aramis' retreat. He jogged up the steps and down the walkway to their room. The door stood open and Aramis was inside. He was standing at the foot of his bed, staring into the open chest before him. But he wasn't making any move to retrieve the clean clothes he'd likely opened it for.

"'Mis?" Porthos called carefully.

Aramis' head snapped around to look at him. His hands, curled loosely at his sides, both tightened to fists.

"I'm fine," he defended immediately. "You didn't need to stay back because of me." Aramis leaned forward and snatched a clean shirt and trousers from the chest.

"I didn't," Porthos denied easily. "There was a day when I could defeat you easily in hand to hand, but that day has passed. Unfortunately for me. You gave me quite the contest and the baths are calling my name."

Aramis watched him retrieve his own change of clothes, suspicion clouding his gaze.

"It's been five years, you know, nearly so at least."

Porthos nodded, bundling his fresh clothes under his arm.

"I know," he replied, shifting to face Aramis again.

"And it's not as if the duke had anything to do with it anyway," Aramis went on, his own change of clothes hanging forgotten in his hands.

"Of course," Porthos agreed.

"There's really no reason to cause a fuss," Aramis insisted.

Porthos just smiled warmly.

"No fuss," he assured.

"So you didn't stay behind because you're worried about me."

"I stayed behind because I'm tired, I smell, and I want a bath," Porthos replied.

"Good." Aramis nodded sharply and moved towards the door.

"But," Porthos started, the word bringing Aramis to a halt in the doorway, "if mentions of Savoy were to bring back bad memories for you, that wouldn't be anything to be ashamed of. Or anything you would need to hide."

Porthos walked towards his brother, sliding past him out onto the balcony.

"See you down there?" he asked casually over his shoulder as he headed for the stairs.

"Yeah," Aramis replied quietly, still rooted in the doorway.

Porthos trotted down the stairs and headed in the direction of the baths, but didn't go inside. He hovered in the doorway and looked back to where he'd left Aramis. With a sigh, he realized Aramis was moving the opposite direction from the stairs. He watched his brother move to stand in front of another door, hesitate for several long moments, and then finally push inside.

His old room. The room he had shared with Marsac.

Porthos had hoped he was overreacting. He'd hoped his overprotective nature was rearing its head and that was all. He'd hoped the past would stay where it belonged.

"Bloody hell," he muttered with a deep sigh.

* * *

Aramis stood in the center of the room, looking around. It was empty now, devoid of any personal belongings. No one had moved in yet. It was a traitor's room after all. Eventually, their numbers would swell to the point where someone would _have_ to take this room. But for the last five years, it had been empty.

His eyes drifted over the bare walls, pausing where a lone nail protruded from the wood. A mirror had hung there once.

* * *

_8 years ago..._

* * *

"_What's this?" Marsac asked with a laugh, leaning to look at himself in the small mirror Aramis had just hung._

"_A mirror," he answered blandly, earning an eye roll from Marsac._

"_I can see that. What's it for?"_

"_For seeing reflections."_

_Marsac straightened, turning to give him the full weight of his annoyed glare._

"_Obviously," he replied dryly. "Why is it here? And if you say 'to see our reflections' then I'm going to punch you."_

_Aramis grinned._

"_I got it to use when shaving. I used one the other morning when I was with… Well, nevermind who I was with. But I've never trimmed things so evenly or precisely before." He ran his fingers over his mustache and down around the hair trimmed neatly on his chin._

_Marsac stared at him for a long moment and then burst out in laughter._

"_I've never known someone who took so much time preening."_

"_It's not preening. It's taking care with how I present myself."_

"_Preening. Like a cat." Marsac's smirk was positively wicked. "Gato." He made a meowing noise._

"_You may actually be the worst person to ever live."_

* * *

Aramis had ripped that mirror from the wall after returning from Savoy. He'd let it smash to the ground into a thousand pieces, matching how his soul had felt in those dark days.

He sat heavily on the bed that had once been his own, eyes fixed on the second bed across the room. They had teased and harassed each other to the edge of sanity most days. But they had been best friends. Brothers.

Savoy had destroyed all of that. Marsac, wherever he was, was lost to him now. If he was even still alive at all.

Traitor. Coward. Those were the words used by the Musketeers to describe Marsac now. But he wasn't those things to Aramis and could never be.

A weight settled on the bed next to him and Aramis dragged his focus back to the present.

"No one expects you to just forget, Aramis. I know I never will. But you can't let the past, let _him_, drag you backwards."

Aramis couldn't help but think that was much more easily said than done.

"Come on," Porthos' shoulder rocked against his. "Serge told me he made your favorite for supper down there so long as we clean up first. Let the past stay there, yeah?"

Aramis looked over to meet Porthos' warm, earnest gaze.

He had called Marsac brother once and the consequences of that had nearly destroyed him.

It was in Porthos that he had learned to trust brotherhood again.

He nodded silently in response and let the other man pull him up and out of the room. But even as he followed Porthos away from that tangible piece of the past, the intangible parts of it remained rooted firmly in his mind and in his heart.

* * *

Porthos finished relieving himself in the chamber pot and moved towards his bed. A glance at Aramis showed his brother sprawled on his back, staring pensively up at the ceiling. One elbow was braced against the wall, the same hand rubbing agitatedly at his left brow. The other hand was resting against his abdomen, fingers occasionally drumming restlessly.

Porthos sighed and crossed the room, nudging at Aramis' hip to get him to slide further over.

"What are you doing? Hey!" Aramis squawked in protest when Porthos got impatient and just bodily shoved him closer to the wall.

Without asking permission, Porthos stretched out next to him, so they were laying shoulder to shoulder. Aramis remained in annoyed silence for a moment before reacting.

"I'm fine, you know," he grumbled.

"You don't have to be fine," Porthos replied carefully.

Aramis remained tense at his side.

"I'm fine," he snapped.

"Aramis…" Porthos soothed softly.

"It was _five_ years ago," Aramis argued sharply, but Porthos could hear a tremble of emotion in his tone.

"'Mis, five years ago or fifteen years ago, there will always be moments where it feels like yesterday."

Aramis hissed a low curse and angled his head towards the wall, palm pressing against his forehead. Porthos felt his heart clench when a tear squeezed its way free of the corner of Aramis' eye, sliding unacknowledged down into his hair.

"It's okay to feel it," Porthos reminded. "And it's just me here anyway."

Aramis drew in a deep breath and rolled his head back to neutral, staring up at the ceiling again. Porthos did the same and for a few moments, they just laid in silence.

"I still hear them sometimes…still see them," Aramis admitted quietly, voice catching. He cleared his throat and went on. "It's not as often as it used to be but it still happens."

Porthos closed his eyes and sighed out a breath. He opened his eyes again and resumed staring at the ceiling alongside Aramis.

"You've gotten better at hiding it," he realized.

"It's not that," Aramis disagreed with a slight shake of his head. "And it's not as if it happens all the time, and when it does, I'm usually alone anyway."

Porthos grimaced at that. From the very beginning, Aramis' struggle towards recovery had always taken steps backwards when he was left alone too long. He had been alone for days after Savoy, a living man amongst the dead. Time had soothed some of those raw wounds, but not, apparently, all of them.

"I didn't know," Porthos confessed, guilt pulling at him. He was Aramis' closest friend. He, above everyone else, should have _known_ Aramis still struggled.

"You can't be at my side every moment," Aramis reminded, a slight huff of fond annoyance in his tone.

Porthos grinned up at the ceiling, unable to help a slight chuckle that escaped him.

"I suppose that could get a bit awkward, what with the frequency you find yourself with female companionship…"

Aramis barked out a laugh, before groaning in amused horror.

"There are a few that I imagine wouldn't mind the company, but _I _on the other hand would mind a great deal."

"And here I thought you were a famed libertine."

Aramis' groan now was mostly smothered in laughter.

"You're terrible," Aramis accused, jamming an elbow in Porthos' side. Then he sobered a little. "And thank you."

"Roll over and go to sleep," Porthos replied with mock sternness that was laced in warmth. "And move closer to the wall. You're too small to take up so much room."

With that, Porthos rolled the opposite way, making a dramatic point of shifting around to claim space. Aramis chuckled behind him but rolled to face the wall without complaint. He didn't ask Porthos to go back to his own bed, and Porthos didn't need to be asked to stay.

The dreams may come anyway, but at least Porthos would be there to help fight them off.

* * *

_End of chapter one_

_There will be a chapter a day (so long as my pregnancy brain remembers) until we're done! As usual, this fic is fully written and beta'd so we're off to the races! 14 chapters in all of varying length!_

_Until tomorrow, enjoy this little preview of Chapter two!_

* * *

_He slowed as he grew closer, frowning as he heard a voice that was most definitely not Aramis'. D'Artagnan paused behind the cover of the pillar he was passing, leaning around to see who Aramis was talking to._

_"…it was the duke," the stranger insisted._

_D'Artagnan didn't recognize him, but Aramis seemed to. He couldn't remember ever seeing Aramis look so…unsettled. He was usually the most easy going of the lot, carefree and always finding something to laugh about._

_But there was no trace of humor in Aramis now as he shoved the stranger back against a pillar._

_"How do you know?" Aramis demanded. "The raiding party was all masked."_

Raiding party?_ d'Artagnan wondered with a frown._


	2. Cause My Heart So Much Misery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who commented: Soccergem and Daisy_Chain
> 
> Can you guess the song the chapter titles are inspired by? Shout it out in a comment and I'll give you a shout out!

_"It was a mistake," you said. But the cruel thing was, it felt like the mistake was mine, for trusting you.  
_ **David Levithan**

* * *

Athos fought the urge to reach up and pull his hat down further over his eyes. The sun was unusually bright today, or perhaps his eyes were unusually sensitive.

"Heat. Flies. Boredom. I do so love parades. I'm thinking of fainting just for somethin' to do," Porthos muttered suddenly.

Athos felt his lips pull upwards at the familiar grumbling. They'd been standing here for hours already. The duke was later than expected, if the King's sour countenance was anything to go by. On Athos' other side, d'Artagnan was holding up admirably, though he looked overwhelmingly amused my Porthos' complaining.

Usually, Aramis and all of his quick wit could be counted on to keep up a steady stream of entertaining, muttered conversation. But a glance around Porthos showed the usually verbose man to be staring pensively into the distance, mind clearly focused elsewhere.

Athos shifted back, glancing at Porthos.

"What's wrong with him?" he wondered curiously. Jilted by one of his many lovers, perhaps. Caught by a husband, maybe. Or a father.

But there was no amusement in Porthos' expression when he sent Athos a sharp look.

"Have you forgotten about the massacre at Savoy?" he asked lowly. But he needn't have worried about upsetting Aramis; the man didn't react or even seem to hear them.

He _had _forgotten, Athos realized with a jolt.

He hadn't been a Musketeer at the time. He had met Aramis and Porthos weeks later, when Aramis was drowning in darkness and Porthos was struggling to keep both their heads above water.

He hadn't been there for Savoy, but he _had_ been there for the months – _years_ – of recovery for Aramis that came after.

A thousand silent curses ran through Athos' mind as he glanced around Porthos again to Aramis.

How could he have forgotten? No wonder Porthos had stayed back last night. Athos should have realized. He should have stayed back as well.

"What massacre?" d'Artagnan whispered suddenly, curiosity bubbling in his tone, likely welcoming the distraction.

Athos glanced at him, but just shook his head.

_Later,_ he promised d'Artagnan with his gaze. Now wasn't the time. Not with Aramis within hearing distance.

The younger man sighed, but nodded.

Athos looked back at Porthos.

"Last night?" he asked softly.

Porthos grimaced.

"Wasn't good. He's had worse, but that aint' sayin' much."

"I'm right here, you know," Aramis broke in suddenly.

"Sorry 'Mis," Porthos apologized immediately. "I didn't think you were listenin'."

"I wasn't… But then I saw that."

Aramis tilted his head slightly forward, spurring the rest of them to look as well.

A carriage.

The Duke of Savoy was here.

* * *

Porthos tried valiantly to keep himself from stealing too many worried glances at Aramis as the duke's carriage slowed to a stop. He knew he'd not been as covert as he'd hoped when Aramis suddenly snapped a glare at him. He didn't say anything, but the sharp annoyance in his eyes clearly explained his frustration with the extra attention.

Porthos lifted his brow in surrender and focused on the meeting taking place in front of them.

"…healthier looking corpses," Savoy was saying, his mocking eyes on the Cardinal.

Porthos grinned. He couldn't help himself.

He glanced instinctively at Aramis, hoping to share the humor, but his brother's gaze was distant again, expression stony and carefully blank. He'd been taught at a young age to hide what he was feeling, to conceal anything that could be perceived as weakness. It was a lesson he had learned well, and at times like this, it made him damn nearly impossible to read.

Out of the corner of his eye, Porthos saw d'Artagnan shift a bit, looking at something off to their right. But Porthos ignored him, focusing back on Aramis.

He drew in a breath, ready to say something, anything, to draw Aramis back, but before he could, the marksman's gaze sharpened and he went rigid, sucking in a sharp breath.

Then a shot cracked across the courtyard.

As a unit, they were in motion, weapons drawing as they collapsed into a protective shield in front of the king. Aramis' eyes were alert now, Porthos saw, and calculating. He was looking into the distance, tracking the shot.

Treville's voice rang out for them to pursue the attempted assassin.

Then it was all running.

* * *

They'd split up. A strategic decision to cover more ground. But as Aramis moved silently through the grounds, the back of his neck tingled incessantly. The assassin was still here. He could feel it.

The rope, hanging down from a rooftop above, told the story of the assassin's arrival. Aramis gave it an experimental tug and found it secured effectively.

Could the assassin have climbed it to escape? Possibly, but he'd have to have moved with quite a bit of speed to scale the rope before they came into view.

He hadn't fled that way.

Aramis' instincts were screaming, demanding his attention. The threat was still here.

He stepped through the pillars, eyes searching, senses stretched.

He felt the presence at his back a moment before an arm came around him and a knife point pressed against his neck.

"Hello old friend. Don't make me kill you."

Aramis' mind whirled, confusion and recognition invading and battling fiercely for dominance. He knew that voice.

"_I failed you," _it had whispered once. _"I failed them."_

"Marsac?"

The man behind him shifted, pulling the covering off his face, taking in a breath to speak.

Aramis seized the moment, throwing back an elbow and twisting free. A moment later, he had Marsac on the ground, the knife that had been against his throat now wielded by his own hand.

Hardly believing what was happening, Aramis kept the knife pointed threateningly at Marsac, warning against any attempt to rise.

"First a deserter and now an _assassin_?" he accused, something hot and angry boiling suddenly in his chest as broken memories of the attack in Savoy and the days that followed rose up in his mind.

"You don't understand," Marsac explained quickly, hands outstretched in surrender from where he still lay on the ground. "It was the Duke of Savoy that led the attack and killed our friends five years ago."

Aramis, heart pounding mercilessly, retreated a step, tossing the knife out of reach as his mind reeled. It was too much. Too much too fast. He turned away, breathing hard.

He steeled himself. No matter his own confusion at the moment, he was still a Musketeer and Marsac had still tried to kill a guest of the king. His job here was clear.

He pulled his pistol as he turned back, aiming it steadily at Marsac's heart.

"Put your weapon on the ground."

"We were _friends_, Aramis," Marsac pleaded, desperation in his eyes.

"Now!" Aramis demanded, unable to quell the sudden tremble in his hand and in his voice. This was _Marsac_. This was the man who had been a brother to him for over four years before Savoy. This was the man who had saved his life...only to abandon him hours later.

_It was Marsac._

With a sigh, Marsac tossed down his sword and Aramis kicked it further away, glancing around to see where the others were. He saw Porthos immediately, across the courtyard, distracted by his own search.

Porthos hated Marsac. Aramis wasn't entirely sure what his brother would do when put face-to-face with the man after all these years.

"Aramis, please," Marsac begged, pulling his attention away from Porthos. "Listen to me!"

The others were drifting closer. Aramis cursed silently and stepped towards Marsac, pulling him up and pressing him to the pillar, where they were both concealed by its bulk. The others continued their search across the courtyard, not even glancing their way.

Aramis clenched his jaw, shoving Marsac back angrily and returning his pistol to his hip. What would he do with it anyway? Kill Marsac? There was no point in having it drawn if he had no intention of using it.

"Thank you," Marsac breathed out in relief, dropping a hand onto his shoulder.

Something triggered in him, a sudden fissure of terror slicing up his spine and a cacophony of noise rising in his head – screams of pain, clangs of steel, his own confused and pleading voice.

"_Don't leave me here! Marsac!"_

Fury rose in him, white hot and fueled by deeply rooted, years-old pain.

He drove a fist into Marsac's gut and roughly threw him to the ground.

"That's for leaving me alone in the forest with twenty dead Musketeers."

* * *

D'Artagnan watched Athos and Porthos meet up at the far end of the courtyard, gesturing at various directions as they talked. Having found nothing in his own search, d'Artagnan started towards them. But movement off to his left stole his attention and he turned.

It was Aramis.

He was pacing, shifting around with such agitation in his posture that d'Artagnan was immediately concerned. Something was wrong.

He hurried in that direction, forgetting about the others as he made his way to the marksman. He slowed as he grew closer, frowning as he heard a voice that was most definitely not Aramis'. D'Artagnan paused behind the cover of the pillar he was passing, leaning around to see who Aramis was talking to.

"…it was the duke," the stranger insisted.

D'Artagnan didn't recognize him, but Aramis seemed to. He couldn't remember ever seeing Aramis look so…unsettled. He was usually the most easy going of the lot, carefree and always finding something to laugh about.

But there was no trace of humor in Aramis now as he shoved the stranger back against a pillar.

"How do you know?" Aramis demanded. "The raiding party was all masked."

_Raiding party?_ d'Artagnan wondered with a frown.

"I've made it my life's work to find out the truth!" the man argued heatedly.

Aramis pushed away from the stranger, pacing away again, everything in his stance screaming that something was terribly wrong. D'Artagnan stepped out from his cover, bringing up his pistol and aiming it at the stranger should he try to make a move on Aramis, though he didn't seem at all concerned about his own safety against a would-be assassin.

Aramis' head snapped around at the sound of the pistol cocking, hand busily fitting his hat back onto his head.

"Care to tell me what's going on?" d'Artagnan asked, meeting Aramis' suddenly wide eyes.

D'Artagnan circled slowly in Aramis' direction and the marksman immediately moved to meet him, holding up a calming hand to the stranger.

"Marsac's an old friend," Aramis explained steadily.

D'Artagnan cut a doubtful look at him, before returning his gaze to this _Marsac_.

"'An old friend'? An old friend who just tried to kill the Duke of Savoy."

"Hear him out," Aramis all but ordered. "Marsac was one of the best soldiers in the regiment."

D'Artagnan dropped his pistol to his side, turning to stare at Aramis.

The marksman was looking back at Marsac, but despite his suddenly calm demeanor, d'Artagnan could see tension tight in Aramis' jaw, his shoulders in a stiff line.

Something was wrong, his instincts were screaming it. Something was wrong with Aramis.

So instead of immediately shouting for the others, d'Artagnan focused on the shocking information Aramis had just relayed.

"He's a Musketeer?" he asked.

Aramis granted him a fleeting look, without ever actually meeting his eyes. D'Artagnan had seen him do that to the others before…when he was hiding something. Porthos always said Aramis' eyes told the truth even when everything else about him was lying.

"He was," Aramis corrected, threads of agitation seeping into his voice as he paced back over to Marsac.

D'Artagnan watched, concern mounting.

"We were brothers once," Marsac pleaded. "For the sake of our old friendship, let me prove what I know!" D'Artagnan could clearly see the effectiveness of the words, the tactical manipulation of Aramis' emotions.

Aramis drew in a breath, looking away from Marsac. D'Artagnan could nearly _see_ the weight settling on Aramis' shoulders as he fought some internal battle between loyalty and duty. And though his expression remained carefully controlled, there was an air of anxious agitation hovering around him.

Finally, the marksman looked at him and then started back towards him, motioning with his head for d'Artagnan to come closer. Then Aramis said the absolute last thing d'Artagnan expected.

"I need you to keep quiet about this…for now."

"Have you gone mad?" d'Artagnan demanded immediately.

He was talking about protecting an _assassin_. He _had_ to be mad.

"Possibly," Aramis admitted ruefully. "But…" Aramis glanced back at Marsac, breathing in a way that was a little too fast to be considered steady, "I owe him my life."

D'Artagnan knew he had only moments to make a decision.

He glanced away with a sharp sigh.

There was only one choice for him to take, really. Whatever was happening, Aramis was obviously deeply invested. And if d'Artagnan knew anything about him, he knew Aramis didn't back down from anything. Not ever. If d'Artagnan refused, Aramis would continue on anyway.

He thought of everything he had observed since he'd stumbled into this mess. Something was wrong. Aramis wasn't himself, and d'Artagnan couldn't let him do whatever he was planning alone.

He looked back at Aramis and raised a threatening finger.

"If this gets me hanged, I'm going to take it very personally."

The relief that swept across Aramis' expression was a bit startling in its magnitude. The marksman pressed a hand to his heart and clapped d'Artagnan on the shoulder, backing away towards Marsac. D'Artagnan watched him go, worry tightening around his heart.

Aramis paced back to Marsac, but didn't stay near him but for a moment before taking a few restless steps back towards d'Artagnan.

"We need to hide him somewhere. Somewhere the others won't find him."

D'Artagnan took a few measured steps closer, watching with a worried furrow in his brow as Aramis drifted back towards Marsac again. There was only one place d'Artagnan could think of; a controlled environment where a stranger wouldn't stumble on him.

"We could take him to Constance," he suggested. "We'll figure out something to tell her. But her husband is away and no one would think twice of a man going into a boarding house."

Aramis scowled, seeming to instinctively reject the idea of involving anyone else.

"We'll tie his hands," d'Artagnan continued, "secure him in a room and tell her he's tired from traveling. He'll be contained and she'll never know the difference."

After another long moment of hesitation, Aramis apparently realized he had no better option. He nodded. D'Artagnan nodded in return and they stepped to stand on either side of Marsac, hustling him quickly out of the courtyard and to where they'd left their horses.

They moved rapidly, Marsac riding behind Aramis. When the boarding house came into view, Aramis slid off Esmé and pulled Marsac into an alley. D'Artagnan followed, holding both horses steady as Aramis tied Marsac's hands with a rope from his saddlebags before winding the excess around his own hand.

"I hope she's home," d'Artagnan muttered as he glanced towards the boarding house.

"Moved on from the big one, have you? Is this your new pet?" Marsac muttered.

D'Artagnan snapped his gaze back to the other two men.

"Is he talking about Porthos?" he demanded sharply.

Marsac arched a brow.

"So he's still a Musketeer, then?"

"_Cállate,"_ _(Shut up,) _Aramis snapped. D'Artagnan arched a brow in concern. He had only known Aramis a short time, but already he knew that if he started speaking Spanish, and not to his horse, something was very wrong.

Marsac seemed to realize he wasn't helping his cause and he fell silent, eyes studying Aramis. D'Artagnan didn't like the calculating look in the man's eye, as if he were figuring out how best to play this out. As if Aramis were just a piece in a puzzle he needed to manipulate.

This was going to very rapidly get out of hand. D'Artagnan didn't know the history here, but the others obviously did or Aramis wouldn't want them kept out of it.

D'Artagnan wondered if that meant he should tell them immediately. Self-perseveration had not proven to be Aramis' strongest skill.

"Come on," Aramis growled, pulling Marsac sharply after him towards the alley entrance.

For now, d'Artagnan could do nothing else but follow with the horses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ooo things are starting to heat up! this chapter should give you a bit of a taste of how this is a 'companion' to the episode, not simply a tag. We will follow the relevant events of the episode (meaning the ones pertaining to Savoy and Aramis), but without word-for-word transcripting. Make sense? Great!
> 
> Sorry this was so late today! Tomorrow's should be earlier as my boys are visiting their grandparents for the weekend so I'm astoundingly kid free! Here is a nice little preview of Chapter Three to help the wait!  
*****  
Something was wrong, very wrong. It took a lot to get Aramis worked up, and even more to get him to this state of upset. Porthos took a careful step closer, concern overriding his curiosity.
> 
> "Aramis," he called calmly, voice pitched low, soothing, grounding.
> 
> The single word seemed to roll over Aramis like a wave, and something in him stilled, calming.
> 
> Aramis finally faced them, gaze rising to meet Porthos' solidly for the first time.
> 
> "Marsac… It's Marsac," he explained simply.
> 
> Fury coiled in Porthos' gut at the mention of the deserter. Next to him, Athos went rigid.
> 
> "What about him?" Athos demanded calmly.
> 
> "He's back," Aramis admitted.


	3. I've Learned the Hard Way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who took a moment to comment! thingswaitingtobewritten, Daisy_Chain, and jamepa
> 
> Now, onward to Chapter 3!

_"THEN YOU SHOULD HAVE DIED!" roared Black. "DIED RATHER THAN BETRAY YOUR FRIENDS, AS WE WOULD HAVE DONE FOR YOU!"  
_ **J.K. Rowling**

* * *

Having gotten Constance's blessing, Aramis followed d'Artagnan through the boarding house to his room, towing Marsac behind him. D'Artagnan opened the door and motioned them inside. Aramis pushed Marsac ahead of him and pointed at the bed.

"Sit down," he ordered firmly.

Marsac had been a Musketeer in a time when Aramis was second only to Treville, and responded to the authority in his tone. He dropped down to the mattress obediently and silently.

D'Artagnan caught Aramis' arm before he could follow Marsac into the room.

"Do you trust him?" d'Artagnan asked lowly. The boy's eyes were bright with a whirlwind of emotion - trepidation, doubt, but most resoundingly, concern. Concern for what, Aramis didn't know.

"I did once," he answered quietly, "with my life."

"And now?" d'Artagnan pressed.

Aramis had no answer. He could only manage a helpless half shrug. He hadn't had time to sort out how he felt about Marsac yet. He hadn't had time to _breathe_ yet.

D'Artagnan sighed, concern still shining in his eyes.

"I'll wait in the kitchen. Secure him. The others will be wondering where we've gone so we need to get back."

Aramis nodded, watching d'Artagnan stride down the narrow hallway. Taking in a deep breath, he stepped into the room.

"He's a mouthy one," Marsac commented immediately. "No uniform, I noticed. Are the Musketeers taking in strays now?"

"D'Artagnan is one of the finest men I've ever met," Aramis defended. "He has the heart of a Musketeer – brave, honest, loyal. I've no doubt he will earn his commission and become one of the finest of us all."

Marsac watched him steadily from the bed, something calculating in his eyes that put Aramis on edge. He moved over to the window, avoiding Marsac's gaze as he pulled it shut.

"So," Marsac began, "Porthos is still a Musketeer?"

Aramis dropped the bar lock on the window shutter into place.

"He's one of the finest in the regiment – a _brother_."

Something bitter filled Marsac's voice when he responded.

"So my replacement is official, then," he commented lowly.

Aramis sighed out a breath before turning to face him.

"It was never about that, Marsac. It was never _you_ or _him_, not for me," Aramis replied. How many times had they argued over this in the weeks before Savoy? Marsac's jealousy had been a bitter wedge between them in the end.

"And yet you still chose him in the end, it would seem," Marsac pointed out with a sneer.

Aramis moved closer, posture coiled with tension.

"He was _here_ after Savoy. You _weren't_," Aramis reminded harshly as he dropped to a knee and started securing the rope to the bed frame.

Marsac fell silent, watching him. Then, as Aramis finished, he finally spoke again.

"Where would I go if I escaped?" he challenged wearily.

Aramis looked up at the tone and saw the stirrings of defeat in Marsac's eyes.

"I don't know," he admitted. "That's why I'm not letting you loose."

He watched a tangible weight settle on Marsac then, the burden of his cause and the realization that he had failed in it. Inexplicably, Aramis felt guilty for thwarting him.

He knew what it was to be haunted by Savoy. He had found a way to heal and move on through the brotherhood offered by Athos and Porthos. It was clear Marsac had found no such salvation.

He dropped a comforting hand onto Marsac's shoulder...and then let it slide off. He shifted his attention to the length of rope in his hand, fidgeting with it as he spoke.

"I've thought of you many times," he confessed quietly, he hesitantly lifted his gaze to meet Marsac's. "Wondered how you were living."

_If _he was living.

"Precariously," Marsac replied despondently. "A musket for hire with thieves for company and one eye on the door. I'm weary of it."

Aramis' heart clenched at the defeat he could see in Marsac now. The years of living as he had weighing down on him. He was fishing for Aramis to give him hope, something to hold on to. Aramis wished he had something he could offer – a way out, a new life. But there was nothing he could do.

"Your name is held in contempt amongst your own comrades. You're a coward and a deserter. For that alone you're under sentence of death."

"_No one_ has the right to judge_ me_!" Marsac hissed, suddenly furious. Aramis drew back in surprise at the sudden change. "You alone know what really happened."

Memory rose in Aramis' mind. The scar hidden beneath his hair throbbed as cries of battle filled his ears and the smell of blood filled his nose. Still, even after five years, they were only broken pieces. He had never remembered that awful night in its entirety, nor could he remember more than scattered pieces of the days that followed.

But the things he _did_ remember, he remembered with perfect clarity.

He didn't want to remember any of it.

He didn't want to think about it.

He didn't want to be in this room anymore.

He wanted to be out, somewhere where he could breathe again.

Aramis reached to cover the rope around Marsac's wrist, fleetingly meeting his gaze before he stood and retreated to the door and reached for his cloak.

"Treachery can't go unpunished, Aramis. The lives of our dead friends must be avenged."

Marsac was doing it again – looking at him in a way that put him on edge.

More than anything else, in that moment, Aramis wanted to be _away_ from Marsac. He tossed his cloak over his shoulder and left the room without a word, pushing the door closed. No sooner had it latched than Aramis dropped back to lean against it, chin dropping to his chest and eyes squeezing shut.

His breaths started coming in sharp pants as the sounds of battle that had been lingering in the back of his mind since he'd found Marsac increased in volume. His hands found their way to the stocks of his pistols, tightening until his knuckles were white.

_It's not real._

He forced a deep breath.

_I'm not in Savoy._

Another breath.

"Are you alright?"

Aramis' head snapped up and he found Constance standing in the doorway to another bedroom, presumably her own, their gazes meeting.

He straightened away from the door, quirking his lips up into a smile.

"Forgive my friend, he's had quite the journey and just wanted to sleep," he explained as he slid past her. "Best leave him be."

"Right…" she agreed slowly, eyes narrow as she tracked his retreat to the kitchen.

D'Artagnan was pacing near the window and whirled as soon as Aramis stepped into the room. He opened his mouth, but a sharp shake of Aramis' head had him snapping it closed.

Constance came through the doorway, eyeing them both warily.

"Thank you, Constance, for your generosity," Aramis offered brightly. "Have a wonderful day." Then he touched the brim of his hat to his head in a sort of farewell and strode for the door. He heard d'Artagnan stumble through his own quick farewell before chasing after him.

As soon as he stepped outside, Aramis felt lighter, like suddenly the air was breathable again.

He moved to Esmé, who knickered and eyed him worriedly.

He wasn't all that surprised when, as soon as d'Artagnan stepped outside, he demanded answers.

"What happened in Savoy?" he asked, not unkindly, but with a firmness that suggested he wouldn't be deterred.

Aramis tossed his cloak over Esmé's back, debating what to say.

D'Artagnan had granted him a lot of trust in helping him with this.

He owed him at least that same trust in return.

So for the first time in five long years, he told the story of Savoy.

* * *

Porthos paced back and forth in front of the open gate to the Garrison, eyes searching the streets in both directions.

"Where do you think they've got off to?"

"I couldn't say," Athos replied mildly from where he leaned against the gate.

Porthos continued pacing.

"Do you think they found the assassin?" Porthos wondered.

"And didn't bring him to Treville?" Athos challenged with an arched brow.

"Right," Porthos sighed. "Then where are they?"

As if conjured, the other half of their quartet rode into sight. Porthos stepped aside to let them ride through the gate and then jogged after them, Athos right behind him. The stable boy ran out to greet them and after sliding off their horses, Aramis and d'Artagnan both handed him their reigns.

"Where in the bloody hell have you been?" Porthos demanded.

The two of them exchanged a telling look but before either could reply, a bellow bore down on them from above.

"YOU FOUR! In my office!"

They all knew better than to test Treville in this sort of mood so they moved quickly up the stairs to meet him.

"I take it from your lack of prisoner that you've failed?" the captain demanded.

"For now," Athos replied calmly.

But despite, or maybe even because of the mild response, Treville was positively seething. He turned on his heel and stomped towards his office. They all followed, as they knew he expected them to.

"How in God's name did he escape?" Treville snapped as he strode into his office.

Porthos listened as Athos, and then Aramis, offered excuses for their failure. Something in Aramis' voice caught Porthos' attention. There was something too casual about how he spoke. It was almost flippant, as if failing to capture the assassin was of little consequence to him.

But it was only after d'Artagnan's even worse excuse that he had "tripped" that Porthos realized something was truly amiss. Beyond d'Artagnan, Porthos could see Aramis, expression blank and smooth. Not a worry, not a care.

It was the mask, the one Porthos was far too familiar with. And it only ever meant one thing.

Aramis was hiding something.

He was distracted momentarily when d'Artagnan blamed "wet grass" for his tripping.

The boy was a terrible liar.

Porthos glanced at Athos, whose expression was placid. But his eyes showed he was clearly as suspicious as Porthos felt.

Orders to protect the duke weren't unexpected. Nor was Porthos surprised that Treville didn't order Aramis into such a position. Their captain, despite his gruff exterior, would never be intentionally cruel.

Athos gave Porthos a sharp look as he slid past Aramis to follow d'Artagnan out of the room.

Porthos gave him a slight nod.

Yes, something was going on.

He tried to catch Aramis' eye as they turned to leave, but the marksman expertly avoided him and instead retreated quickly, catching up to d'Artagnan.

Together, the two of them headed down the stairs.

Porthos paused with Athos at the top as they watched the other two descend.

As they watched, Aramis pulled his hat off, restlessly combing a hand through his hair.

"He's fidgety," Porthos muttered. "And won't meet my eyes. And D'Artagnan is lying… _Poorly_. Something's going on."

"Agreed," Athos replied immediately. "And we need to find out what."

They had to take the stairs a bit quicker than usual to catch up to the others. Aramis and d'Artagnan were already at the gate by the time they caught up to them.

"Hey!" Porthos called out.

Aramis immediately turned, looking as calm, casual, and unconcerned as he ever had.

Next to Porthos, Athos zeroed in on Aramis, eyes intense.

"You're hiding something," he accused bluntly.

Aramis' eyes were wide and innocent as he met Athos' gaze.

"I have no idea what you mean," he replied with blank confusion.

Porthos willed Aramis to _look at him_, but he steadfastly kept his gaze on Athos.

Athos, for his part, had turned his focus on d'Artagnan.

"You too," he pointed out. Then looked back at Aramis. "What is it?" he demanded, tone uncompromising and clearly expecting honesty.

Aramis looked away from all of them then, fitting his hat back on his head and looking like he was about two seconds away from making a break for it. Porthos stared hard at him, silently demanding Aramis just _look_ at him. Athos stared, too, and even d'Artagnan joined in, clearly expecting Aramis to say something.

When Aramis only grew more restless, d'Artagnan leaned forward a bit.

"If you don't tell them, I will," he warned.

Porthos rolled his eyes in frustration. He was tired of dancing around this.

"Tell us what?"

Aramis finally looked at him, but only fleetingly. Then with a sigh, he shifted restlessly again.

Porthos knew at once, that whatever was going on – he was going to hate it.

"Not here," Aramis deflected before striding away without another word.

The rest of them were left with no choice but to follow. Luckily, he didn't go far, Porthos might have run him down if he'd tried – and slid into an alley a ways away from the Garrison, pacing away from them, tugging his hat from his head so he could rub a hand anxiously through his hair. It was a tell of his, one of the few.

"Alright, you've got your venue," Athos pointed out. "What's going on?"

Aramis half turned to face them, but ended up shifting his weight anxiously and running a hand up through his hair again.

Something was wrong, _very_ wrong. It took _a lot_ to get Aramis worked up, and even more to get him to this state of upset. Porthos took a careful step closer, concern overriding his curiosity.

"Aramis," he called calmly, voice pitched low, soothing, grounding.

The single word seemed to roll over Aramis like a wave, and something in him stilled, calming.

Aramis finally faced them, gaze rising to meet Porthos' solidly for the first time.

"Marsac… It's Marsac," he explained simply.

Fury coiled in Porthos' gut at the mention of the deserter. Next to him, Athos went rigid.

"What about him?" Athos demanded calmly.

"He's back," Aramis admitted.

"What?" Porthos growled, a bit of his rage coloring his tone. Marsac was _here?_ No wonder Aramis was as jumpy as a jackrabbit. If Marsac was here, if Aramis had seen him…everything about Savoy would be coming back along with him.

Aramis gave him a wary look, even more tension tightening up in his shoulders. Porthos felt an immediate swell of guilt for causing it.

"Why is he here?" Athos demanded.

Aramis glanced at Athos, then back at Porthos, but said nothing.

"He's the assassin," d'Artagnan volunteered abruptly. Aramis cut a sharp glare at him, but d'Artagnan looked unmoved. "Might as well tell them everything."

"He's _what?"_ Porthos snapped.

"Start from the beginning," Athos demanded.

Aramis shifted again, eyes jumping to the alley entrance before shifting back to Porthos, then Athos.

"Don't even think about it," Porthos warned when Aramis' gaze slid to the alley entrance again.

The marksman's gaze snapped back to his and then he sighed, fingers fidgeting with the brim of his hat.

"I caught up to him on the grounds," Aramis explained quietly. "I was... I was going to bring him in," he insisted. "At least I think I was…"

"What happened?" Athos asked calmly.

Aramis gaze shifted briefly to him before looking back at Porthos.

"He's got a theory about what happened in Savoy."

Alarm bells started going off in Porthos' head, as they always did when Savoy was involved.

"What theory?" he asked carefully, holding Aramis' gaze with his own.

"That the duke was behind it," d'Artagnan supplied when Aramis remained quiet.

Athos' brow rose in surprise.

"And you believe him?" he asked Aramis.

The marksman shrugged helplessly.

"I don't know," he admitted.

"Why are we even talking about this?" Porthos snapped. "He's a _deserter_."

"He was a Musketeer before he was that," Aramis retorted sharply. "He was _there_, Porthos. He saw the things that I saw and he remembers things I don't remember. He's spent the last five years trying to find out what happened."

"You know what happened," Athos reminded.

"Do I?" Aramis challenged, attention swinging over to Athos. "I was told it was the Spanish and maybe it makes sense. But _I_ _don't remember._ So much of that night is still just broken pieces. What if there's more to the story?"

"You should have done your duty and brought him to Treville," Athos pointed out calmly, his tone firm but not accusing.

"I owed it to him to hear him out," Aramis defended.

"You don't owe him anything," Porthos reminded sharply.

"I owe him my _life_!" Aramis argued.

"No, you don't!" Porthos snapped. "He left you to _die_."

"He _saved_ me," Aramis nearly snarled back.

"Enough!" Athos cut in. "Where is he?"

"The Bonacieux House," d'Artagnan supplied quietly. "We secured him in my room there."

Athos nodded sharply.

"We need to go and deal with this."

Aramis immediately started forward, as if to lead the way, but Porthos caught his arm.

"We'll catch up," the larger man told the others.

The look Athos gave Porthos was full of warning to tread carefully, but he nodded, motioning for d'Artagnan to go with him. The boy trailed after Athos reluctantly, casting a worried look over his shoulder at Aramis as they left the alley.

Aramis, for his part, had pulled his arm free and paced a few steps deeper into the alley, fidgeting with his hat again. Porthos watched him for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts and calm the simmering rage in his heart. When he spoke, his voice was calm and level once again.

"I could never understand your loyalty to him after everything he did. I still don't understand it."

Aramis pushed his hair back and carefully fit his hat back onto his head, taking a long moment before turning to face Porthos again.

"He was my brother, Porthos – for years before that night. How can I turn my back on him?"

"He turned his back on you easily enough," Porthos reminded, wincing at his own sharp tone.

Aramis' spine stiffened.

"You weren't there," he pointed out.

"Not for the fight, no," Porthos agreed. "But I was there _after_. I was there when his betrayal nearly destroyed you. I was there every day as you recovered and I was there when you came out the other side. _I_ was there, Aramis...not him."

Aramis looked away and Porthos shook his head, at a loss. And, if he was being honest, a bit hurt.

"So how could you still choose _him_ after all this time?" he wondered before walking away to follow Athos and d'Artagnan.

Aramis' whispered response followed him out of the alley.

"It was never about you or him…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Chapter Three
> 
> More tomorrow as Athos and Porthos come face to face with Marsac at last!
> 
> Here is a preview of what's to come in Chapter 4!  
*****
> 
> "You weren't there!" Marsac hissed. "You weren't even a Musketeer! I would be dead if I had gone back."
> 
> "Aramis was nearly dead anyway because of you," Porthos snarled.
> 
> "I saved his life!"
> 
> "You abandoned him!" Porthos accused, barreling forward and snatching at Marsac's collar and bringing his own gaze level with the assassin's. "You betrayed Aramis and it nearly destroyed him! He lost faith in the Musketeers, in brotherhood, in everything because of you!"


	4. To Never Let it Get That Far

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who commented: HLN, jamepa, Soccergem, helloxmygoodbye, and thingswaitingtobewritten. 
> 
> I know a lot of you are feeling all the feels for Aramis right now, but don't worry...it gets worse before it gets better ;)

_Everyone suffers at least one bad betrayal in their lifetime. It's what unites us. The trick is not to let it destroy your trust in others when that happens. Don't let them take that from you.  
_ **Sherrilyn Kenyon**

* * *

Athos had not felt fury like this in some time, not at anyone but himself at least.

_Marsac_.

He had never met the man, but he had hated him – hated him from the moment he'd learned of his existence. This was the man who had abandoned Aramis in a forest of death. He had left his friend, wounded and confused, to _die_.

What kind of man could do that? No man deserving of Aramis' loyalty, that was certain.

"Why are you and Porthos so angry? What am I missing?" d'Artagnan demanded quietly as they walked. "What did Porthos mean, that Marsac had left Aramis to die?"

Athos spared the boy a glance and then looked over his shoulder to the others trailing behind. Porthos was a few steps away, but Aramis was a few steps further behind him, head down, expression hidden by the shadow of his hat. His posture was coiled tight, though, fraught with tension and anxiety.

Athos looked back at d'Artagnan.

"What did Aramis tell you?"

"Not everything, apparently. That Marsac saved him when he was injured, got him to safety but didn't return to battle, that he deserted."

"What that version leaves out is that Aramis was gravely wounded when Marsac left him. But Marsac didn't send word to the Garrison, didn't bring Aramis to a doctor, didn't even send back help. He just _left _him there. Aramis was out there for days before anyone came, and then only to collect the bodies. There was a town less than a league away, but they weren't expecting to find any living among the dead, so no aid was prepared. And because of that, he nearly died anyway."

D'Artagnan's face had gone pale, eyes widening as he listened.

Athos shook his head.

"Marsac left Aramis, a man who I know, with certainty, would give his life in an instant if it meant even one of the men who died in Savoy would get to live. I have hated Marsac for that since the moment I learned that truth."

Athos could never, and would never, understand how Marsac could walk away and abandon a man like Aramis. A brother.

D'Artagnan was silent for a moment.

"Should I have told him no? When Aramis asked for my help, should I have said no?" he wondered eventually.

Athos sighed, feeling warring sensations of relief and trepidation as the Bonacieux house came into view.

"If you had, Aramis would likely have just knocked you out where you stood to buy time and done it on his own. Then we wouldn't know where Marsac was and Aramis probably wouldn't have ever told us about him. You did the right thing."

D'Artagnan looked relieved as they reached the front door. There, they waited for Porthos and Aramis to catch up.

It was time to talk to Marsac.

* * *

Not trusting d'Artagnan to lie convincingly, Athos stepped forward to make their excuse with Constance: having heard their old friend was in town, Athos and Porthos were hoping for some privacy to reminisce. Constance had stared at all of them with an arched brow, glanced at d'Artagnan – who smiled – and then mildly announced she had to go to the market anyway.

With Constance out of the house, the four of them looked around at each other for a long moment.

"Perhaps the dining room," Athos suggested calmly. "I believe we could all benefit from a bit of breathing room."

More to the point, he wasn't quite certain how Porthos would react to seeing Marsac again after all that had happened. Best to keep as much distance between the two as possible. "I'll go and get him," Aramis volunteered quietly, striding out of the room before anyone could protest.

Athos, Porthos, and d'Artagnan moved to the dining room and waited. They heard the footfalls first, and all three pairs of eyes were pinned on the doorway. And then he was there.

Marsac.

Athos had never met the man. He knew him only by reputation, by the bitter stories told around the Garrison, and by Aramis' fractured account of that awful night in Savoy. He wasn't how Athos had imagined. He was smaller somehow. Even so, Athos barely tamped down the very violent urge to draw his sword and collect recompense for every bit of pain this man had brought down on his brother.

Heavy footsteps to his left had Athos turning. He reached out to catch Porthos around the chest before he could stomp past him.

"Calm down," he hissed, but knew his own rage colored his tone.

"Porthos," Marsac noted dryly. "It's been a long time."

"Not long enough," Porthos spat, shaking off Athos' warding hands and crossing his arms across his chest. The move made him appear even larger than his normal stature.

Marsac's gaze shifted to Athos. "You're new."

Athos opened his mouth, ready to give a fittingly scathing rejoinder that would let Marsac know _exactly_ what he thought of him. But Aramis slid around Marsac, shifting himself between the deserter and the rest of them.

"This," the marksman cut in, reaching to grip Marsac's shoulder and pull him forward a step, "is Athos. He joined us shortly after Savoy." Keeping hold of him, Aramis led him to a chair on the opposite side of the table from everyone else. He stood by him, fiddling with the rope in his hands, and Athos couldn't determine whether his position was to guard Marsac...or defend him.

Porthos growled low in his throat and stalked over to the fireplace, as far from Marsac as possible, while d'Artagnan stood by the door, shoulder braced against the frame, arms folded and surveying the tense scene before him before him. For his part, Athos took a seat at the other end of the table, eyes fixed on the smug deserter's face, not wanting him out of his sight for a second.

"So," Marsac stated loudly, slapping his hands against this thighs. "What brings you here? Nostalgia? A reunion from the good old days?"

"This is no friendly reunion," Porthos growled. "And the old days weren't so good."

"They're here to listen to your side of the story," Aramis explained.

"We're_ here_ out of respect and deference to Aramis," Athos clarified. "If it were up to me, I would charge you with treason and be done with you," he added curtly.

"And by what authority would you do that?" Marsac challenged with a mocking huff of laughter.

"I'm Treville's second."

This gave Marsac pause. He looked up at Aramis questioningly. Athos knew that in Marsac's time it had been Aramis who held that title.

"Five years is a long time. A lot has changed," the marksman explained without meeting Marsac's gaze, choosing to focus on some spot on the table instead.

"Easy to miss such things when you desert like a _coward,_" Porthos quipped under his breath, but loud enough for everyone to hear.

Marsac bolted from his seat at the same time Porthos took a step forward, drawing himself up to his full height. Athos was very thankful that a table stood between them as he had no doubt they would have come to blows, even though he desperately wanted to punch Marsac squarely in the face himself.

"Enough!" Aramis shouted, putting a hand on Marsac's shoulder and holding out a placating hand towards Porthos. Athos watched Porthos hold Aramis' gaze for a long, charged moment. There was no mistaking the pleading in their marksman's eyes.

D'Artagnan, arguably the most level head in the room at the moment, cleared his throat and stepped forward.

"Let's just sit back down and get this over with, shall we?"

Aramis pushed down on Marsac's shoulder, and only when he was back in his seat did Porthos resume his position leaning against the mantle.

D'Artagnan nodded, sighing in relief. "Good. I'd rather not have to explain to Constance why we're interrogating a criminal in her dining room."

"Criminal?!" All eyes turned to see Constance at the door d'Artagnan had been leaning against. "You told me he was a cabinet maker!"

* * *

After a very tense and uncomfortable conversation where they explained to Constance who Marsac really was and d'Artagnan seemingly lost his lodging, Marsac led them to an abandoned cellar and a man he claimed had been part of the attack at Savoy. Dangling from the ceiling by his chained wrists, the man confirmed as much as he explained, in detail, the attack at Savoy.

But then he named the man who had betrayed the Musketeers five years ago.

Treville.

Porthos scowled. _The captain?_ That couldn't be right. The man was lying. Marsac must have put him up to it. But as they rushed over to pull Marsac off of where he was strangling the prisoner, Porthos knew they'd never know for sure.

He stared at the man hanging from the post as d'Artagnan quickly checked him. How had they been foolish enough to let down their guard?

"He's dead," d'Artagnan announced with a huff.

Porthos growled low in his throat, looking over at Marsac. He was startled to see Aramis standing an arm's length away from the man. He reached out and latched onto Aramis' arm, pulling him back.

"Not a failed assassin anymore," Porthos growled.

Aramis immediately shook Porthos' arm off, shooting him a glare.

"_He_ was the murderer!" Marsac defended sharply.

"_He_ was also your only evidence," Athos pointed out, tone frustrated.

"He murdered my friends!"

"And what were you?" Athos spat. "If not his accomplice!"

"Athos," Aramis voice was soft, but firm, cutting through the tension and bringing every set of eyes to him. "That's enough."

Porthos shook his head sharply.

"It's not enough," he argued. "How can you possibly trust him? He just murdered a man right in front of us!"

"You heard what he said, though!" Aramis shot back, gesturing at the dead witness. "There are too many questions now – too many things left unanswered."

"Leave it in the past," Porthos pleaded. "It's over and done!"

"Not for me!" Aramis snapped angrily, chest heaving as if he couldn't catch his breath. "It's _never_ been over. It's never been _done_. You don't get to decide when I leave it behind!"

Porthos drew back, startled by the explosion of temper.

"Maybe we should just…take a breath," d'Artagnan suggested in the charged silence that followed. "We need to deal with this," he motioned at the body.

"He's right," Athos agreed, effectively putting an end to the argument.

Porthos held Aramis' fiery gaze for a long moment and knew that this was far from over.

* * *

"If it is true, what then?" Athos challenged before turning and walking back to the others as they escorted Marsac back to the Bonacieux house.

Aramis watched him go for only a moment before turning the other way.

_What then?_

Aramis didn't know. If it was true, if Treville had betrayed them, then he must answer for it. But Aramis' heart screamed in protest. Treville would never have done it. He had been as a father to Aramis in those days. He would never have willfully sanctioned his death.

And yet…

The pieces didn't add up. Something wasn't right.

He walked slowly back to the Garrison, turning it over in his head.

Marsac had killed the witness, the only one who could prove his theory. Did that mean something?

Was Marsac lying?

Was this all part of some grand plot?

But for what purpose?

Was there something he was missing that the others saw? Why else would they all fight so hard against pursuing the truth?

His steps slowed as the Garrison gate came into view and eventually he stopped across the street from it, staring at the stone crest carved into the gate and the words that surrounded it.

_All for one. One for all._

That motto had nearly destroyed him once.

After Savoy, he had carried the weight of twenty lost brothers on his shoulders – on his soul. He'd been sure his survival had been penance for failing them. It had been Porthos and Athos who had convinced him he was wrong.

It was Porthos who had told him Savoy was not a burden he needed to carry alone.

It was Athos who had told him survival was his obligation, not his penance.

They had been his salvation in the darkest time of his life.

They had promised that he would never face the ghosts of Savoy alone.

"_I don't believe Treville is guilty and I never will. But we won't stand in your way."_

Athos words rang in his head as he stared at the gates, at his _home_, and felt an inexplicable urge to run the opposite direction.

_But we won't stand in your way._

They wouldn't stop him from pursuing the truth, but they wouldn't help him either. They wouldn't seek that truth alongside him.

It was that thought, as he finally crossed the road and walked through the gates, that burned more deeply than anything else. Because he was walking straight for the looming ghosts of Savoy. He was facing them head on, and that terrified him. But even more terrifying was not having his brothers at his back as he'd always imagined he would if this moment ever came. And so Aramis found himself, for the first time in nearly five years, to be truly and deeply, _alone_.

* * *

"Sit," Porthos growled, shoving Marsac back down onto the bed in d'Artagnan's room.

Marsac didn't protest the rough treatment; instead, he willingly held out his hands to Athos, who was holding a length of rope.

The swordsman stepped forward, tightly securing Marsac's wrists back together and to the bed.

Porthos watched silently, anger and hatred simmering dangerously in his heart. He kept his glare on Marsac, willing the man to burn from his gaze alone.

When Athos stepped back, Marsac looked up at Porthos with an arched brow.

"Just say it," he prodded with a sneer. "I know you've been dying to."

"How could you do it?" Porthos snapped, fists clenching as he fought down the urge to reach out and beat Marsac to a bloody pulp. "How could you just leave him to die?!"

Marsac shook his head, scoffing as if they just couldn't understand.

"I wasn't exactly myself," he defended.

"And when you hid from the fight? Cowering in the trees? Were you yourself then?" Athos added sharply.

"You weren't there!" Marsac hissed. "You weren't even a Musketeer! I would be dead if I had gone back."

"Aramis was nearly dead anyway because of you," Porthos snarled.

"I saved his life!"

"You abandoned him!" Porthos accused, barreling forward and snatching at Marsac's collar and bringing his own gaze level with the assassin's. "You betrayed Aramis and it nearly destroyed him! He lost faith in the Musketeers, in brotherhood, in _everything_ because of _you!"_

"He doesn't seem to see it that way," Marsac pointed out dismissively.

"Aramis is too forgiving," Athos replied coldly. "A trait I'm sure you were well aware of when you chose to return."

Porthos released Marsac with a shove.

"Athos and I bear no such trait. You'll never get forgiveness from us or any other Musketeer."

Marsac looked him squarely in the eye then.

"I don't need or want anyone's forgiveness. I only want the _truth_."

"That's all any of us want," Athos responded.

"Is it?" Marsac wondered with a sneer. "That's why you sent Aramis off on his own then? That's why you all keep telling him to let it go? To leave it in the past? As if he ever could!" He scoffed and shook his head at them. "You hate me for leaving him behind. But what did _you_ just do?"

Porthos clenched his jaw, took a step forward, and slammed his fist into Marsac's cheek.

"We're nothing like you," he argued, pointing a finger at Marsac as the man glared up at him. "Aramis knows that. The path you're dragging him down will bring him nothing but pain. You're a selfish bastard, and if you really cared about him, you would never have brought him into this."

Athos pulled at Porthos' arm, towing him towards the door.

"I'm right about Treville," Marsac hissed after them. "You'll see. He'll answer for what he's done!"

"You have no evidence," Athos reminded. "And until you do, I will chose to believe my captain over the word of a man who is a coward and a traitor."

Then Athos pushed Porthos out of the room and shut the door sharply behind them.

* * *

Serge stood in the doorway to the refectory, bowl in hand as he stared across the distance to the long table in the yard.

Aramis had been sitting, unmoving, for nearly half an hour. His gaze was distant and troubled in a way the cook hadn't seen it in years. Serge chewed his lip, thinking of the visiting duke. It must be that, he realized. Savoy's visit must be stirring up all sorts of bad memories. Aramis had been a mess in those weeks just after Savoy. He had hidden it well enough from those who didn't know him well; he had been all bright smiles and cheerful words on the surface back then. He had presented himself as a pretty picture and dared anyone to look beyond it.

But Serge had known the boy since he was eighteen years old, swearing his fealty as one of the first Musketeers, and had seen the truth of it in Aramis' eyes. He had seen him breaking. Porthos had saved him in the end, and Athos, too.

Serge glanced around, wondering where the others were. It wasn't often that one would be hanging around without another close by. The three lads, four now, might as well live in each other's pockets.

But none were in sight.

Unable to watch Aramis sit and brood alone for one more moment, Serge started forward.

"Do you want some dinner?" he asked as he approached, not wanting to startle the lad.

Even so, Aramis' head snapped around to look at him. He didn't looked startled, exactly, just…abruptly pulled back to the present. Serge quietly put the bowl on the table in front of him as Aramis drew in a deep breath, but then sighed it back out with a warm, but tired, smile.

"No thanks."

Serge turned away. Maybe some fresh fruit would entice the boy.

"Serge?"

He turned immediately, brows arching in question.

"Do you remember Marsac?"

Serge did, of course. None of them who had been here in the time of Savoy could forget the man who had deserted the Musketeers, who had left Aramis behind to die in that bloody forest. But it would do the boy before him no good to see Serge's bitter anger over the matter.

"Oh I remember him," he said cheerfully instead. "A good soldier until…well, you know."

Aramis' expression shifted oddly then as he looked away, and Serge felt his worry bubble up a bit more. He glanced around again, willing on of the others to appear, to step to Aramis' side. The poor lad looked so very alone.

But the yard remained empty.

"It's this visit from the Duke of Savoy, isn't it?" he commiserated. "Stirs up bad memories."

He wanted Aramis to know that he understood. Even if he couldn't help, he at least understood. He turned back to the refectory. He would find some fresh fruit. Aramis always liked fruit and Serge always kept a special store just for him.

* * *

Athos usually prided himself on his level head. He was a rational, critically thinking man who usually thought through every decision before he made it.

But right now his mind was spinning. He could hardly focus on the bickering between the duke and Richelieu.

No matter what direction he led his thoughts, he always circled back to Aramis. All he could think about was the look on his brother's face as they had parted ways. He wasn't sure what he'd expected. Frustration maybe, even anger, given that Aramis' temper today was on a very short fuse. Or perhaps he had expected him to be hurt that they were refusing to help him.

But Aramis hadn't shown any of those emotions on his face. Instead he had looked resigned, accepting. He had looked as if doing this alone was nothing unexpected at all.

Athos couldn't get it out of his head.

"I will fight a duel," the duke's words pulled Athos back to the moment and found the duke pointing directly at him, "with this Musketeer."

Athos looked immediately at Porthos.

This was not good.

He did not believe for a moment that Treville played a part in what happened to Aramis in Savoy. But the duke? His involvement seemed far more plausible, especially considering France's relationship with Savoy had deteriorated five years ago, shortly after the massacre.

He looked back at the duke as he laid out his bet to Richelieu.

Could this be the man Aramis had fought in Savoy? The man who had buried a dagger in Aramis' thigh, leaving behind one of many scars from that night?

No matter how skeptical he remained, some deep part of Athos' heart whispered to him.

_It was him_.

He looked to Treville, who nodded his consent. So Athos prepared himself, trying to calm the pounding of his heart, trying to push Aramis out of his mind. But no matter his efforts, as he moved into the open and turned to face the duke, it was Aramis that he saw.

Aramis as he had met him five years ago, on his knees and breaking under the weight of twenty dead brothers. Aramis confined to bed because his head hurt so badly he couldn't even open his eyes. Aramis screaming his way to waking from a nightmare for days on end until exhaustion was stronger than the fear. Aramis sleeping with a dagger under his pillow because he didn't feel secure without it.

"He who draws blood first is the winner?" the duke offered.

Athos spoke his agreement with silence and the duel began.

The duke was skilled, if a bit bull-like. He wasn't as graceful as Athos himself was, but he was powerful.

Had Aramis faced this man?

Aramis, though known for his marksmanship, was an expert with the sword. He was more reserved about his skill with the blade due to the struggles he'd had with picking it up again after Savoy, but Athos had sparred with him many times. Aramis played down his skill when others were around, becoming showy and dramatic, letting everyone underestimate him.

But when the yard was deserted and they were alone, Aramis let himself be free. Athos' favorite sparring matches were those quiet nights when no one was around to bear witness; those times when Aramis didn't pretend to be anything other than what he was – a warrior.

He would have unleashed that part of himself in Savoy that night. He would have fought with every skill he possessed.

Athos could do no less than the same now.

When he looked into the duke's eyes, he saw a man capable of terrible things.

_It was him_, his heart whispered.

He saw a man capable of sneaking into a camp of sleeping men and murdering them.

_It was him_.

He saw a man with the skill to face Aramis and walk away the victor.

_It was him._

He saw the man who would have been his brother's executioner.

_It was him._

He knocked the duke to the ground and lazily batted his sword away, disarming him. Then he moved closer, sword poised to kill.

_It was him._

He was looking at the man who had tried to kill his brother, who had murdered twenty others. Evidence or not, Athos knew that truth deep in his heart.

"Athos!" Treville's voice rang out in warning.

But Athos hardly heard him. He could kill him now. He could avenge Aramis and all the others.

_It was him._

"Athos!"

Athos clamped down on his raging heart. Reigning his focus back to the situation at hand. With a twitch of his blade, he drew blood and backed away. Even as Porthos threw an arm of congratulations around his shoulder, Athos could only focus on calming his pounding heart. But no matter how he tried, he could not ignore the words whispering over and over through his head.

_It was him. It was him. It was him._

"I'm glad it was you," Porthos commented lowly. "I'd have cut his bloody head off."

Athos rolled his eyes. If only Porthos realized how close Athos had come to doing just that.

Treville appeared next to them, furious.

"Your duty was to win, not start a war. You could have defeated him in a way that allowed him his dignity. Go and apologize."

Athos dipped his head in deference and then let Porthos pull him away to reoutfit. The duke had already left the room. That was good. The apology would be best handled in private, especially with the idea starting to unfold in his mind.

"Hey," Porthos nudged him as Athos pulled his doublet back on. "You won, why the face?"

"What face?" Athos asked sourly as he fastened the buttons.

"Aramis calls it your angry face."

Athos closed his eyes. The absolute last thing he needed was to be reminded of Aramis when all that he could think about was that the duke _was_ the man Aramis had faced. He knew it, deep in his bones. He just needed proof.

"It was him, Porthos," he admitted quietly, accepting his weapons belt back when Porthos held it out. "I don't know how I know…but I'm sure of it."

Porthos' gaze was serious as he searched Athos'. After a moment, the larger man nodded.

"I think so, too," he agreed. "I don't know what it is but…"

They held each other's gaze. Somehow they were both certain of it.

They had just been in the presence of the man who had nearly killed Aramis five years ago.

"We've got no evidence," Porthos reminded.

"Not yet," Athos agreed, clipping his pistol to his belt. "But I saw him heading towards his rooms and I'm meant to go apologize. Might as well do it now."

Porthos grinned in agreement.

With any luck, they might catch the duke off guard and get their evidence after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Chapter 4
> 
> That's all she wrote for today! More to come tomorrow!
> 
> Here's your preview of Chapter 5...  
*****
> 
> "What if he's right," Porthos wondered in a horrified whisper. "What if he's right about Treville."
> 
> "Even if he is and Treville played a part, there is more to the story. There has to be," Athos reasoned. "As you said, Treville is the finest man any of us have ever known. He wouldn't have done this."
> 
> Porthos nodded.
> 
> "So what now?"
> 
> "We return to our posts and pray Aramis doesn't do anything he can't take back."


	5. I Learned to Play on the Safe Side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who commented! Daisy_Chain, jamepa, and Soccergem!
> 
> Onward to Chapter 5!

_Stab the body and it heals, but injure the heart and the wound lasts a lifetime.  
_ **Mineko Iwasaki**

* * *

Constance looked up from the vegetables she was cutting as Aramis paced past the table for the hundredth time since he'd arrived ten minute ago. He was worrying the brim of his hat in his hands as he completed anxious, restless circuits around the kitchen.

She glanced over at d'Artagnan where he was dutifully cutting carrots, only to find him watching Aramis with bright concern in his eyes.

That was just fine. Constance was getting concerned too.

She hadn't known Aramis long, but in the time she had, 'anxious' and 'restless' were not words with which she would describe him. He also looked tired. And not just like he had missed a few hours sleep, but bone-weary exhaustion.

"Why don't you sit and let me make you some tea," Constance offered finally when Aramis strode up to the window, checked for the arrival of the others, and then turned and walked back across the kitchen again.

"Thank you, Constance, that's very kind. But I'm not thirsty," he replied politely.

"Some food then?" she tried, hoping that if she could just get him to be _still_, perhaps he would calm down a little.

This time he just gave her a tight smile and shook his head.

A look from d'Artagnan kept her from trying a third time.

Aramis paced back to the window and went immediately rigid.

"Athos is here," he announced.

"Does that mean you're finally going to talk about what's got you so worked up?" d'Artagnan wondered.

"I'll go get Marsac," Aramis stated, ignoring the question. "He needs to hear this too."

Then Aramis simply walked out of the room.

Constance looked at d'Artagnan.

"He's wound so tightly, he's going to break," she pointed out.

D'Artagnan sighed.

"I don't know what to do about any of this. Marsac and Savoy... I wasn't part of that. I'm just trying to follow Porthos' and Athos' lead."

"Whatever happened then – and I don't need to know," she assured when he opened his mouth to cut in, "you're part of _this_. So go be part of it."

A knock came at the front door.

"That'll be Athos. Aramis must have spotted him all the way down the street if he's just now getting to the door," d'Artagnan muttered.

Constance watched him stride out of the kitchen and then looked down at the vegetables on the table in front of her.

For some reason all she could think about was how she wished she had gotten Aramis to eat.

* * *

Aramis pushed Marsac into a chair in the dining room and met Athos' expectant gaze.

"Before you speak," Athos started, "there is something you need to know."

Aramis frowned in confusion.

"Marsac was right about the duke," Athos revealed. "It was him, Aramis. The duke was the man you faced that night."

Aramis took a step forward, reaching for the table for support. A flash of memory stole across his mind: a masked face with cold eyes, a man built like an ox bearing down on Aramis as he fought for his life and the lives of his men.

"Aramis." Athos' voice rose from right next to him and Aramis drew in a sharp breath, realizing he had closed his eyes. He forced them back open and straightened, shifting away from Athos' outstretched hand and circling away from him.

"I broke into Treville's office," he confessed abruptly, if only to deflect away from the weakness he showed at the revelation about the duke.

Athos' eyebrows rose in surprise.

"You did what?" d'Artagnan squawked.

Aramis didn't look away from Athos.

"I used to help him organize his paperwork. _I'm_ the one who helped him set up his filing system. I had to look," he explained.

"What did you find?" Athos asked.

"Wait, what are you even talking about?" d'Artagnan demanded.

Aramis sighed and started over.

"The captain keeps a record of every Musketeer campaign since the regiment was founded... All except that one night. There's no documents for the mission in Savoy – no maps, no letters, nothing at all. Coincidence?"

He turned to Athos, willing his brother to believe him, to stand _with_ him.

"Perhaps you just didn't find them," d'Artagnan suggested. It was a logical thing to say, a practical response. But Aramis knew Treville's office and his filing system. It had been meant to all be his one day after all, back before Savoy had changed everything.

"His filing is meticulous. There's nothing there. The documents have either been removed or destroyed."

He still couldn't fathom why Treville would do such a thing. Why destroy the papers if there was nothing in there that needed to be hidden? Destroying evidence was not the work of an innocent man. Aramis waited for someone to say something, to express the same suspicion he now held in his heart.

"I'm still confident there's a perfectly good explanation," d'Artagnan said instead.

Aramis half turned away, wanting to crush his hat in his hands or throw it across the room or _something_. No one was listening to him. They were hearing his words, but they weren't _listening_.

"I'd be happy to hear it," Marsac muttered doubtfully.

"I admit it is troubling. But I agree with d'Artagnan," Athos finally said.

Frustration rose up so fiercely in Aramis that it made his throat tight.

"So you're content to do nothing?" he asked in disbelief as he took a measured step closer to Athos. "How much evidence do you need that something is badly wrong? _What_ does it take to make you act?"

"I will never believe the captain is a traitor."

Athos sounded so damned _confident_ and so…dismissive. Aramis could hardly believe what he was hearing. He scoffed in disbelief.

"You think _I _want to?" he demanded. Treville had been a father to him since he was seventeen years old. He had hand-picked him for the Musketeers, guided him from being a child soldier to an elite warrior. The very thought that Treville was somehow involved in this left Aramis' head spinning.

But the truth was _right there_. He just had to reach for it. He had to find it. He couldn't understand why _no one_ seemed to understand that.

"Let me help!" Marsac implored suddenly. "I give you my word as a gentleman that I won't try to leave."

Aramis pulled his focus away from Athos to look at Marsac.

"Aramis tell them. You know me."

He sighed, trying to pull his thoughts into line.

"I used to," he replied quietly. So much had changed between them. The man before him now looked like the man who had been his brother, but the fits of rage, murdering men in cellars, attempting to assassinate dukes – that wasn't the Marsac he had known.

"Every word I've told you has turned out to be the truth. Why would I deceive you now?"

Aramis didn't know what to say, he looked to Athos, who sighed and cut Marsac free.

Aramis breathed out a sigh of relief.

Maybe Athos would be at his side in this after all.

* * *

Porthos walked through the gate of the Garrison and looked around.

"Porthos!" a voice called out from above. He looked up, squinting through the rain to see Athos, d'Artagnan, and Aramis on the balcony outside of Treville's office. He jogged to the steps, taking them two at a time to get under the roof and out of the rain.

He wiped the water off his face and took in the scene before him.

Athos was standing in the center of the walkway, clearly acting as a barrier to prevent Aramis from pacing the entire length of the balcony.

D'Artagnan was leaning against the railing, arms crossed and looking tense.

Aramis was…not doing well. He was pacing restlessly, pulling his hat off to comb at his hair with his hand, only to put the hat back on and do it all over again after pacing a few more circuits.

"What's going on?" Porthos asked warily, eyes on Aramis as he prowled.

"Aramis went looking for the records of the Savoy mission," Athos explained.

"And?" Porthos prodded.

"They were gone," d'Artagnan revealed.

Porthos' heart started pounding.

"There's got to be a reason."

"What reason?" Aramis pivoted to face him, eyes a bit too wild for Porthos' comfort. "Please, tell me," he pleaded. "Give me _any_ reason why every bit of evidence that Savoy even happened is _gone_."

"Maybe he's moved it," Porthos suggested.

"Where?" Aramis demanded. "Why?"

Porthos shook his head. "I don't know, 'Mis."

Obviously not comforted, Aramis paced away again.

Startled and concerned, Porthos glanced at Athos. The swordsman only shrugged helplessly and shifted his gaze to Aramis.

"What do we do?" Porthos asked.

"We confront the captain with what we know," Athos replied steadily. "And we see where that takes us."

Porthos nodded slowly, turning his head to watch Aramis as well.

Something had to be done. Aramis was nearly vibrating with tension and was in no state to confront a butterfly, much less Treville.

"Hey," he called soothingly, eyes pinned on Aramis' tense shoulders as he moved past them. "'Mis, you need to take a breath."

Aramis stopped moving, his back to them. He hesitated a moment and then drew in a deep breath, bowing his head and bracing his hands on the railing as he exhaled.

"We'll sort it out, 'Mis," Porthos promised.

Aramis raised his head and shifted his gaze to meet Porthos'.

"What if he did it, Porthos?" Aramis asked quietly, his eyes were wide and vulnerable, but most of all uncertain.

"He wouldn't," Porthos assured.

"Then where are the papers?" Aramis insisted, a touch of desperation in his voice now. He abandoned the railing and took a step towards them. "The letters _I _wrote? The maps _I _marked, sitting at his desk with him by my side? It's as if they never existed. Like Savoy never happened. It _happened_." He'd kept advancing as he talked and was now standing an arm's length away from the three of them.

"I know it did," Porthos agreed, putting a calming hand on his brother's shoulder. "But Treville would never do that to you, 'Mis. And not to the rest of them either. He'll give us an explanation."

"I hope you're right," Aramis replied, something in his tone hardening as his expression smoothed to stone and he shrugged of Porthos' hand. "Because if I'm not satisfied, I won't stop until I know the truth."

Aramis pushed past him to resume pacing and Porthos retreated to stand against the rail.

"He's back," Athos announced.

Porthos turned to look over his shoulder in time to see Treville dismounting.

One way or another, it was time to get some answers.

* * *

Porthos physically forced Aramis out of Treville's office and watched warily as he stalked past Athos and d'Artagnan.

"Marsac is right! How much more proof do we need?" he demanded striding for the stairs.

"Treville didn't admit anything," d'Artagnan pointed out calmly.

Aramis spun to face them, shock and betrayal painted across his expression.

"He didn't need to. It was written on his face," Aramis insisted, eyes intense and dangerous.

Porthos stepped forward. They had to back him down before Aramis did something he would regret. No matter what the truth of this was, Treville was a _good_ man. Porthos was confident there was an explanation, one Treville was refusing to share. He was their captain; it was his right to decide what information they needed to know. He had no doubt that if Marsac had never come back, Aramis would be far more inclined to listen to reason. But the traitor's return had brought up old paranoia, old fear of betrayal, and Aramis wasn't thinking straight.

"The captain is the finest man I've ever met," Porthos pointed out firmly. "And when it comes down to it I'd rather be on _his_ side than _Marsac's_," he decided, drawing a line in the sand and willing Aramis to step back to their side, to remember what he knew about Treville and not react rashly.

But instead, Aramis looked at him like he didn't even know him anymore.

"You may be content to do nothing," he accused lowly. "I'm not."

Then he was gone.

Porthos let out a sharp breath, stepping to the rail to watch Aramis stalk toward the gate.

"Should we stop him?" d'Artagnan wondered, moving to stand next to Porthos.

"He's in no state to be reasoned with," Athos pointed out quietly. "He's obviously not himself."

But Porthos sighed and shook his head.

"That's just it: he _is_ himself. This is what he was like right after Savoy. All he knew in those days was that Marsac had left him behind to die. He lived in constant fear that the same betrayal would come again – from me, from Treville. From any of us. Seeing Marsac again must have brought that all back."

"So what do we do?" d'Artagnan wondered.

"We stop him from doing something he will regret," Athos decided. "D'Artagnan, return to the Bonacieux house in case he returns there to see Marsac. Keep them apart however you can."

The boy nodded sharply and moved quickly to the stairs.

Porthos remained quiet at Athos' side as they watched him go. He couldn't get the look of betrayal on Aramis' face out of his head.

"What if he's right," Porthos wondered in a horrified whisper. "What if he's right about Treville."

"Even if he is and Treville played a part, there is more to the story. There has to be," Athos reasoned. "As you said, Treville is the finest man any of us have ever known. He wouldn't have done this."

Porthos nodded.

"So what now?"

"We return to our posts and pray Aramis doesn't do anything he can't take back."

* * *

Aramis stood in the rain, staring out over the rows upon rows of iron crosses before him. A number of Musketeers who had died before Savoy, then twenty graves for the men who had been murdered in that snowy forest.

"Brothers…" he began, choking on the word. "_No se que hacer." (I don't know what to do.)_ He scanned the grave markers stretched across the grass. _"¿Qué debo hacer?" (What should I do?)_ he asked them.

But they gave no reply.

Aramis dropped to one knee and hung his head, breathing hard.

His eyes caught on the blue sash he always wore around his waist. A memorial to them – to his fallen brothers. He hadn't gone a day without it since he'd put it on for the first time nearly five years ago, swearing to honor their memory.

He raised his gaze again, looking over each cross in turn.

"I promised you that I would never let you be forgotten," he said. "I won't let them erase you. I won't let them erase what happened there," he went on, fire lighting in his soul. "I will force them to open their eyes and _see you._ To see that you existed, that you mattered. I will find the truth and one way or another, I will get justice for each of you," he swore.

He stood and strode away from the crosses, out of the Musketeer cemetery and to the main road.

He knew what he had to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Chapter 5
> 
> Sorry this one is a little shorter! At least you'll only have to wait until tomorrow for the next one! Athos and Porthos should have followed him that day after they confronted Treville. I was so mad that they just let him walk away when he was so obviously upset.
> 
> Anyway, before I get too riled up, we'll move on haha. Here is a preview of Chapter 6!  
*****
> 
> "I was misled!" Treville defended. Had he known, God had he known, he would have found another way. He shifted his focus to Aramis, knowing that he was the one he had to convince. "The cardinal allowed the duke to believe your mission was an assassination attempt," he finished wearily.
> 
> He watched Aramis absorb all of the information, gaze shifting as he processed it and worked through it. Treville knew it was out of his hands now. He had told the truth, at long last. It was up to Aramis to believe him… To forgive him.
> 
> As he watched, Aramis' posture straightened – strengthening even as the resolve in his eyes intensified. His gaze shifted to Marsac and when he spoke, his words were firm.
> 
> "Put the guns down."


	6. So I Don't Get Hurt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who commented! Soccergem, jamepa, sundew, Kitperry, and thingswaitingtobewritten! Hugs to you all!
> 
> Enjoy!

_To me, the thing that is worse than death is betrayal. You see, I could conceive death, but I could not conceive betrayal._   
**Malcolm X**

* * *

Treville had only told the cardinal because he had to; because this was a matter of the entire nation's security. But he phrased his report carefully and as vaguely as possible. He wouldn't put it past Richelieu to takes steps to simply remove the problem if he thought it necessary.

"What do they know?" the cardinal demanded as they strode through the courtyard together.

"That my orders fell into the duke's hands. That our men were betrayed."

"Can't you control your own men?" Richelieu spat, annoyance coloring his tone.

"They want the truth. It's a matter of honor."

It was more than that for Aramis, Treville knew. But he hadn't mentioned his men by name and did not intend to.

"Honor?" Richelieu scoffed. "There's no word in the language more likely to cause stupidity and inconvenience. You do realize what's at stake?"

"Of course I realize," Treville snapped. He knew better than anyone what was at stake here. He had already lost so much to this web of lies and he would not let that sacrifice be in vain.

"Then handle it," the cardinal ordered impatiently.

The sound of steel brushing against a pillar brought Treville up short. He snapped a look at the cardinal, but he didn't seem to have heard it.

Wary of Savoy's spies, Treville retraced his steps, going still in surprise when he rounded a pillar and saw Aramis standing there, well concealed from the cardinal and watching Treville as if he expected him to throw him to the wolves – or wolf.

But Treville had not risked everything he had so that Aramis could fall into the cardinal's hands now. That's what all the lies had been for in the first place – to protect Aramis from Richelieu and his deadly methods.

"What is it?" Richelieu asked.

"Nothing," Treville replied. He had to turn away from the look of confused surprise, the shock, that swept across Aramis' face. It cut too deeply for him to stomach.

"I must go," the cardinal announced. "The duke has demanded an urgent meeting with the king."

"Why?" Treville asked in concern. He had gone to lengths to prevent Aramis from being around the duke any more than necessary. He could not risk either of them recognizing the other. But perhaps the duke _had_ gotten too good of a look at Aramis. Perhaps he recognized the man he had nearly killed five years ago.

"I have no idea," Richelieu replied. "Hopefully he has finally come to his senses."

Then the cardinal was gone. Treville waited a moment for him to round the corner before walking back to confront his soldier. He had to stop this, before Aramis drew the wrong attention; before he drew the cardinal's gaze.

"You think you're entitled to an explanation. This is not your concern," he stated firmly.

But he had little hope a stern word would be enough to deter him.

"You and the cardinal – as thick as thieves. Twenty dead Musketeers. That makes it my concern," Aramis hissed. Treville had rarely seen rage like he now saw in Aramis' eyes. He knew the boy had a temper; he always had. But this went beyond even that. Even so, Treville tried again to stop him.

"You think I won't have you arrested? That you're above the normal rules of soldiering?"

But Aramis either didn't hear him or just wasn't listening.

"Did you betray your own men to the Duke of Savoy?" the marksman asked bluntly.

"You are meddling in complex affairs of state!" Treville scolded sharply.

"Simple question!" Abruptly, something shifted in Aramis' countenance as they stared at each other. Something vulnerable broke through the anger. "Did you do it?" he asked.

And then he saw it...a glimpse of the young man Treville had met all those years ago – all of seventeen years old and alone in the world; a child soldier that Treville had taken under his wing; the boy he'd watched grow into a man.

The boy who had been as a son to him for so many years.

He had pushed Aramis away after Savoy because he knew that he did not have the strength to see his suffering and not attempt to ease it.

He did not have that strength now.

"Yes."

It wasn't anger in Aramis' eyes as he lashed out, a sharp right cross putting Treville on the ground. It wasn't rage – it was _hurt_. It was betrayal. It was pain.

Treville would have preferred anger.

He didn't try to block the second punch, and when he lifted his gaze again the rage he had wished for was there. Aramis leaned in close, fury hovering around him like a cloud.

"This isn't over."

Then Treville could only watch as Aramis retreated.

He knew then that he had to tell Aramis everything. If he didn't, the young man would be lost to him forever. Perhaps, he already was.

As Treville pushed to his feet, he told himself it was the force of the blows that made his eyes sting and nothing else.

* * *

Aramis moved through the palace grounds by habit alone. He hardly noticed where he was going, but soon he found himself outside the gates and back in the city.

His heart pounded, his lungs labored, and his vision narrowed.

_It was true_.

He stumbled, knocking shoulders with a man pushing a cart. With a mumbled apology he continued on, cutting down an alleyway. His stomach turned and he reached for the alley wall, bracing a hand against it just as his stomach rebelled.

He swiped a hand across his mouth and stepped back, retreating from the mess.

His heartbeat pounded in his ears, making his head throb. His chest felt as if a vice was closing around it, preventing his lungs from drawing in proper breath. He knew what was happening. How many times after Savoy had he suffered through a similar episode?

He pressed a hand to his chest and braced the other against the alley wall. He closed his eyes and forced himself to slow the rapid rhythm of his breathing.

It was true. Treville had betrayed them, had betrayed _him_. He had condemned his own men to death.

Anger and pain swelled within him, rising up like a tide until there was nothing to do but let his emotions break free.

With a shout, he hooked his hands in a wooden crate stacked next to him and threw it across the alley. It smashed against the opposite wall and broke to pieces. Not yet satisfied, Aramis kicked over the stack and then reached for another crate, turning sharply to shatter it against the wall, too, letting loose a guttural cry of rage twisted with agony.

Legs feeling suddenly weak, he dropped to his knees and let himself fall back against the alley wall, dropping his head back against the stone building.

His chest heaved and Aramis squeezed his eyes closed, knowing that he needed to calm down before he _couldn't_.

But it _hurt_.

Fighting down another swell of emotion, Aramis pulled his head forward, letting his chin drop to his chest.

He had to tell someone. He had to tell Marsac the truth, that he was _right_.

He had to…

Aramis's eyes snapped open and he went still.

"Marsac…" he murmured softly.

Treville had systematically erased any trace of what happened in Savoy. All that remained now were Marsac and himself. He needed to get to Marsac, to get him out of the city before he was erased from history as well.

Aramis lurched to his feet and started moving again, with renewed purpose. He had failed twenty men in Savoy. He would not fail the twenty-first.

He moved through the city quickly but subtly, sticking to alleys and shortcuts. He slid behind a fruit cart just in time to avoid being seen by Constance and d'Artagnan as they came out the front door of the boarding house. They were chatting amicably, grinning.

Aramis shifted his course, circling around to the back door. He slid in silently and made his way to d'Artagnan's room. He found Marsac confined to the bed once again.

"Why are you tied up again?" he asked in confusion.

"Your friend d'Artagnan doesn't like me very much," Marsac replied, then his eyes narrowed, watching Aramis closely as he took off his hat and set it aside, reaching for his main gauche. "What's happened?"

"You were right," Aramis told him. "About everything. Treville admitted it to me himself." Aramis drew in a breath. "He betrayed us."

Saying it out loud made it feel suddenly too real.

"You need to get out of the city." Aramis forced himself to focus. "As far away as you can before he realizes that you're here."

Marsac frowned at him as Aramis cut him loose.

"What will you do now?" he asked.

"Report Treville to the authorities. He'll face a court martial," Aramis decided. It was the only thing he could do. The only thing within his power.

"With the cardinal involved it won't even go to trial!" Marsac protested. "You have to act, Aramis! Handle this ourselves."

Aramis shook his head. He didn't have the heart for revenge, he never had.

"I'm a soldier. Not a vigilante."

"If you want justice, then this is the only way," Marsac insisted, frustration coloring his tone as he latched onto Aramis' doublet.

Aramis let out a breath and framed Marsac's face with his hands to calm him, claim his complete attention.

"It's not my way," he stated softly, but firmly. He would not be swayed on this.

Marsac's expression shifted to one of reluctant acceptance.

"You're right. I'm sorry."

Relieved, Aramis stepped back.

"You're still a deserter," he pointed out. "If they catch you, they'll hang you." He shifted, turning to the door to be sure d'Artagnan and Constance hadn't come in yet. The house seemed quiet. "The best thing for you to do is leave Paris as soon as possible."

He turned back, stepping right into Marsac's fist as it swung towards him.

His world rocked and then darkened. The last thing he was aware of was the hard wood of the wall as his back fell against it before slumping to the ground.

* * *

Treville had always found work in the armory to be soothing. There was a catharsis in tending to muskets and sharpening swords. Feeling more centered, he replaced the musket he'd been cleaning on the rack.

"Treason has to be paid for, Captain."

A pistol cocked.

Treville sighed, knowing the voice immediately. Marsac's was a voice that haunted his dreams. Without turning, he let out another breath.

"I always thought you'd be back one day," he admitted.

"Was it money?" Marsac demanded, his voice shaking with rage. "Were you paid by the duke?"

Treville turned, giving the man who had once been his soldier a disappointed look.

"If you think that, then you know nothing about me."

Marsac advanced and Treville retreated, keeping as much distance between them as he could. Ever the good soldier, Marsac was moving him away from the weapons.

"I'm going to blow you to hell," Marsac swore. "But first, I want to know _why!_"

There was pain there, too, mixed with the anger. Treville had been party to destroying this man's life. He could not hold his fury against him.

Movement near the door drew Treville's attention, and he let out a breath of surprise when Aramis stepped into the room, pistol cocked and raised. But he didn't point it at Treville. His aim was trained on Marsac.

"Put your gun down, Marsac," Aramis ordered, a casual authority in his tone that Treville had always known would make others willing to follow him. Marsac drew another pistol, pointing it at Aramis this time. "Whatever the captain has done," Aramis' glare turned to him now, and Treville knew the moment for truth had finally come, "he will account for it at a court martial."

"There will be no court martial. The king knows what happened. I was acting on his instructions," Treville revealed, speaking the truth of the matter for the first time in five years.

Confusion and disbelief swept across Aramis' expression.

"The king told you to betray us?" he asked, doubtful.

"I was told to pass on your position to the duke. Those were my orders and I obeyed them," Treville explained, eyes never leaving Aramis. He willed the man to believe him, to trust him just one more time.

"What reason can there be for sanctioning the slaughter of your own men?" Marsac demanded with angry disbelief. Treville granted him a glance and knew he had to tell them everything.

"It was done to protect the king's most important spy in Savoy – the duchess."

"You sold us out to save _the duchess_?" Aramis questioned, voice rising with emotion. He looked confused, but there was hope in his eyes as he latched onto the explanation – the _reason_ for all of this.

"Cluzet was a Spanish spy. He began to suspect she was passing us information. We had to distract the duke and snatch Cluzet before he exposed her," Treville told him, keeping his gaze on Aramis.

He hated the uncertainty in Aramis' face as he tried to grasp all that Treville was telling him, tried to rationalize it with what he already knew and realize what it meant _now_, in this moment.

Marsac shifted.

"Twenty of our friends were _murdered_," he reminded bitterly.

"I was misled!" Treville defended. Had he known, _God_ had he known, he would have found another way. He shifted his focus to Aramis, knowing that he was the one he had to convince. "The cardinal allowed the duke to believe your mission was an assassination attempt," he finished wearily.

He watched Aramis absorb all of the information, gaze shifting as he processed it and worked through it. Treville knew it was out of his hands now. He had told the truth, at long last. It was up to Aramis to believe him… To _forgive _him.

As he watched, Aramis' posture straightened – strengthening even as the resolve in his eyes intensified. His gaze shifted to Marsac and when he spoke, his words were firm.

"Put the guns down."

Treville let out a silent breath of relief. Aramis believed him. If he died with that certainty, it would be enough.

But Marsac was shaking now, fury written on his face.

"You heard him! You heard what he said! He's _guilty!_"

"And you heard his reasons, so…" There was something vulnerable in Aramis' tone. He was at a crossroads; Treville could see the realization of that in the marksman's eyes. Unless he could convince Marsac to stand down, he would have to make a choice. "...put them down!" he demanded, a thread of desperation making itself known.

Marsac merely adjusted his aim.

"Marsac!" Aramis implored fiercely.

Marsac tilted his head.

"This has to end here, Aramis," he stated as a condescending smile turned up the corner of his mouth. Treville watched the horrible realization dawn on Aramis' face and the marksman shook his head in a silent plea. "You know that."

Marsac shifted his aim and fired.

Gunpowder exploded on the table in front of Aramis, knocking his arm aside and forcing him to fire, sending his shot wide.

Treville ducked behind a pillar, coming up behind Aramis in time to see him draw a second pistol, concealed behind his back until now. In the span of a single breath, two more shots were fired, swirling trails of smoke rising from both men's pistols.

Everything went still and eerily quiet.

Marsac's face was painted in shock as he stumbled a step and reached for his coat, pulling it aside to reveal a spreading stain angling up to his heart.

Treville watched Aramis dart forward, catching Marsac before he could collapse.

"I'm sorry, old friend," the marksman whispered.

They went to their knees, Aramis now the only thing holding Marsac up.

Treville drifted closer, heart rending as he watched them.

"Better to die a Musketeer…than live like a dog."

And then it was over. Marsac's gaze grew distant, and with a sighing breath he folded forward against Aramis' chest.

Aramis didn't react as other Musketeers burst into the room; he remained on his knees, clutching Marsac to him.

"It's over," Treville snapped at the men who had come in. "Send word for Athos and Porthos. Do it now."

They scrambled out of the room as quickly as they had come in and Treville turned his focus back to Aramis. He shifted forward, taking a knee next to him. He reached out to lay a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't touch me." Aramis hadn't moved. His gaze remained focused on some distant point, but there was a warning in his tone.

Treville withdrew his hand.

"Aramis…"

"I need to bury him. It needs to be me," Aramis stated suddenly.

"Of course," Treville allowed. "Let me help you," he implored gently.

Aramis finally shifted his gaze, focusing on him. Treville winced, noticing the darkening bruise around Aramis' right eye for the first time.

"He hated you. Even as he died, he hated you," Aramis pointed out.

"And he had every right," Treville allowed softly. He searched Aramis' gaze. "Do you hate me?" he asked.

Moisture misted in Aramis' gaze and he looked down at Marsac.

"I should," he whispered, then looked back at Treville. "But how could I?" he added with a helpless tilt of his head.

Treville let out a relieved sigh and reached out again. This time Aramis let him complete the gesture and his hand landed gently on the man's shoulder.

"It's late," he pointed out. "You need to rest. We'll move him for the night, and in the morning we'll lay him to rest…with his brothers."

Aramis' gaze snapped up to his, glistening with unshed tears.

"You would let me bury him with the others?" he asked, his voice hopeful and broken all at once.

"He was a Musketeer before he was anything, Aramis. It's where he belongs."

Aramis clenched his jaw, looking down again.

"I sent for the others – for Athos and Porthos."

"No," Aramis denied sharply. "They hated him. He wouldn't want them here."

"Do _you _want them here?" Treville asked carefully.

Aramis didn't look at him.

"No," he answered softly.

"Alright," Treville allowed. "Let me help you, then?" Treville pleaded once more.

This time, Aramis nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Chapter 6
> 
> Well, we're pretty much at the end of what the episode gave us! Almost, at least! But we still have several chapters of fallout left! So get excited! I know I am!
> 
> Here is a preview of Chapter 7  
*****
> 
> "I need you to come with me," Treville instructed calmly, giving up on the battle over food. The bowl of stew from last night still sat on the table next to the bed, cold and uneaten.
> 
> "Where?" Aramis asked mildly.
> 
> "To stand parade and see the Duke of Savoy off. They signed the treaty yesterday."
> 
> For the first time in hours, Aramis' gaze sharpened. He turned his head to look at Treville in disbelief.
> 
> "What?"
> 
> "We have to keep up appearances," Treville explained gently.
> 
> "You want me to face him?" Aramis demanded, voice strained from exhaustion.
> 
> "No," Treville assured. "I want you to stand at my side and do your duty. And when the duke is gone, we will come back here and lay Marsac to rest."


	7. I Find it Hard to Trust not Only Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who commented! jamepa, sundew, issa, Soccergem, Thimblerig, thingswaitingtobewritten, and helloxmygoodbye!
> 
> Ready for some angst on all fronts? Good, cuz here it comes.

_Et tu, Brute?  
_ **William Shakespeare**

* * *

Porthos brought Fort through the gate of the Garrison a bit more quickly than he usually would. He slid from the saddle and didn't spare the stable boy a glance as he handed off the reigns.

Treville was coming down from the second floor barracks, looking as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders.

"Captain…" Porthos called out, hardly noticing as Athos and d'Artagnan dismounted behind him.

Treville looked up and met his gaze. Then with a sigh, he motioned them to come with him.

Porthos followed readily.

"Where's Aramis? Is he alright?" Porthos demanded, but didn't give the captain any time to respond before he continued. "Claude came and got us. He said something about gunfire and that Aramis was involved. What happened?"

Treville didn't answer Porthos' anxious outpouring of words as he led the way into the armory.

"Captain?" Athos pressed as they followed him in.

Treville moved to stand in the middle of the room, sighing heavily as he looked down at his boots. Finally, he shifted to face them.

"Aramis is uninjured, save for a nasty black eye," he began. But before Porthos could even process any shred of relief, Treville went on. "Marsac is dead."

"What?" Porthos questioned in surprise. "How?"

"Aramis," Treville answered simply.

Porthos felt the air rush out of his lungs and his stomach dropped to his boots.

_No._

"Aramis killed him?" d'Artagnan asked, confused and shocked.

Treville lifted his chin a bit.

"Aramis saved my life," he corrected. "Marsac gave him no choice."

Porthos reached for the wall, bracing his hand against it. He closed his eyes, heart aching for his friend.

"Where is he?" Athos asked quietly.

"He wanted to stay with Marsac. They're in their old quarters."

Porthos tore out of the armory.

"Porthos, stand down!" Treville barked after him. He instinctively responded to the authority in the captain's voice and paused, turning back.

"He shouldn't be alone."

"I agree," Treville assured. "But he doesn't want to see you."

Porthos felt as if he'd been slapped.

"What?" he gasped.

Treville stepped past them, towards the refectory.

"Perhaps you should spend the night asking yourselves why," the captain finished sternly before moving into the refectory.

Porthos was reeling. When they'd arrived, he'd feared Aramis was wounded, dying even. Instead he'd learned his friend was uninjured, or at least physically. But he had killed a man who was once a brother, and that was a type of wound that was not so easily mended

"Aramis killed Marsac–" d'Artagnan repeated blankly, voice soft and disbelieving.

"The captain said Marsac gave him no choice," Athos reminded.

"I have to see him," Porthos decided, starting across the yard. Athos followed immediately.

"The captain said…" d'Artagnan started.

"Aramis needs us," Porthos snapped over his shoulder. "Whether he wants us or not."

He reached the steps and took them two at a time, striding down the walkway to the room Aramis had once shared with Marsac; the room they were sharing tonight, one last time.

He tried the handle and found the door locked.

"'Mis?" he called carefully. "It's me. Open the door."

Silence was his only answer.

"Aramis, open the door!" Porthos pleaded, rapping his knuckles against it. "Please."

There was no sound, not even the shifting of feet on the floorboards.

"Are you sure he's in there?" d'Artagnan wondered.

Porthos stared at the door, heart in his throat. He had stood in this very spot five years ago, staring at this same door. He hadn't been able to reach Aramis then, not yet. But things were different now. They had come so far since those dark days.

Porthos pressed his palm flat against the door.

"Aramis," he called out gently. "_Please_."

_Please don't shut me out again._

Still, nothing but silence. The pain the lack of response brought pierced Porthos to his core.

"Porthos," Athos touched his shoulder. "We should let him be."

"He needs us," Porthos insisted in a breathless whisper.

"You will step back," Treville's voice rang out sharply right behind them.

Porthos' shoulders sagged and he dropped his head, palm still flat against the door.

"Do not make me repeat myself, soldier."

Porthos clenched his jaw and reluctantly stepped away, letting his fingers trail down the door before allowing his hand to fall to his side.

Treville stepped between him and the door, a bowl of stew in his hand.

"I have had enough insubordination today. You will stand down and return to your quarters – _all of you_."

Porthos opened his mouth to argue but Treville's gaze flashed dangerously.

"Now," the captain ordered lowly.

Athos pulled at Porthos' arm and he allowed himself to be towed back a step.

"Come on, we'll try again in the morning," Athos assured in a whisper.

As Athos and d'Artagnan urged him back down the walkway, Porthos couldn't help but look back. He saw Treville slide a key into the door and a moment later, push it open. Before the door closed behind him, Porthos got a glimpse of Aramis, sitting on his old bed, elbows braced on his knees and his head in his hands.

Then the door shut and Aramis was hidden once again, sequestered away – away from _him_.

Because he didn't want to see them.

_Perhaps you should spend the night asking yourselves why._

Treville's suggestion rang out in his mind and Porthos' heart clenched as Athos pushed him into his and Aramis' quarters.

"I'll go find us some food," d'Artagnan whispered before retreating.

As the door closed, Porthos sank down onto his bed, staring across the room at Aramis' empty bunk. Athos dropped down next to him, looking across the room as well.

"What have we done?" Porthos whispered into the quiet room.

Athos had no answer.

* * *

Dawn was just breaking when Treville slid into the room, a plate of fruit, bread, and cheese in hand. Aramis sat just where he'd left him ten minutes prior, sitting on his old bunk, back pressed against the wall, staring with haunted eyes across the room at where Marsac lay.

"You need to eat," Treville counseled, setting the plate on the bed down next to Aramis.

"I'm not hungry," Aramis insisted quietly.

"I know you're not," Treville allowed. "But you need to eat anyway."

Obediently, though with visible reluctance, Aramis reached for a piece of bread. In the end, though, he only turned it over in his hands without ever bringing it to his mouth.

"I need you to come with me," Treville instructed calmly, giving up on the battle over food. The bowl of stew from last night still sat on the table next to the bed, cold and uneaten.

"Where?" Aramis asked mildly.

"To stand parade and see the Duke of Savoy off. They signed the treaty yesterday."

For the first time in hours, Aramis' gaze sharpened. He turned his head to look at Treville in disbelief.

"What?"

"We have to keep up appearances," Treville explained gently.

"You want me to face him?" Aramis demanded, voice strained from exhaustion.

"No," Treville assured. "I want you to stand at my side and do your duty. And when the duke is gone, we will come back here and lay Marsac to rest."

Aramis' jaw clenched and trembled.

"How am I supposed to stand in the same room as him?" he asked.

"With your head held high," Treville replied firmly. "He has no reason to believe there were any survivors that night. We cannot give him reason to suspect."

"And if he recognizes me?" Aramis challenged.

"He thinks you're dead, Aramis. And it was night when you fought him. He won't recognize you. Even if he suspected, he could never draw attention to it; he can't tell the truth of what happened any more than we can."

Aramis looked away, brow furrowing.

"Why would anyone notice if I wasn't there?" he asked quietly. "I don't want to go."

"The cardinal would notice."

Aramis looked back at him quickly.

"What does the cardinal have to do with anything?"

Treville sighed.

"I promise, I'll tell you everything. But for now, we must go."

Aramis stared at him for a long moment, gaze searching Treville's. Finally, he nodded.

* * *

Porthos nudged Athos when he saw Treville arrive with Aramis at his side.

The marksman looked exhausted, with a weariness that reached deep into his bones. But when he came to stand at parade rest next to Porthos, his shoulders were back, his chin up, and his gaze fixed on some distant point ahead of him.

"Aramis…" Porthos whispered.

"I will have silence while on parade," Treville snapped.

Porthos clamped his mouth shut and blew out a frustrated breath. He hadn't slept. He'd spent the night tossing and turning over the decisions that he had made and the consequences they had brought.

But he couldn't see where things had gone so wrong. He couldn't figure out how they had ended up here – with Marsac dead by Aramis' hand.

The duke finally bid his farewell and the duchess led her son along the line of court members, pausing briefly in front of Porthos and Athos to offer a firm assurance that she loved her husband. Porthos gave her a small nod of acceptance and understanding before watching her walk away with her son.

The room was dismissed moments later and Porthos turned to where Aramis stood...only to find him gone. He searched the room with his eyes until he caught a glimpse of blue cloaks as Treville and Aramis left the hall together without a backward glance.

Porthos started after them, but a hand caught his arm.

He whirled, glaring at Athos for allowing even more distance to grow between them and Aramis.

"He's with Treville. He's not alone. Let him be for now."

"It should be _us_ with him."

"He doesn't want us there," Athos reminded. "And perhaps that is deserved."

Porthos sighed out a breath, but couldn't argue.

"I think what _we_ want is not what is most important right now," Athos added quietly.

* * *

Aramis shifted the last bit of dirt onto the grave with his shovel and then stepped back. Next to him, Treville held out a hand and Aramis handed him his shovel, which he took back to the horses and cart.

While he was gone, Aramis dropped to one knee next to the fresh grave, reaching for the cross hanging around his neck. He looked out over the rest of the graves, years old now.

"I found the truth," he said aloud to the iron crosses. "Just as I promised you I would. Justice, though…has proven to be a more complicated thing. But rest now, knowing that you died for France and that your sacrifice will never be forgotten."

"You always did have a way with words," Treville praised softly as he came up next to him.

Aramis took one more moment to grasp the cross more tightly before letting it fall to his chest as he stood.

Thunder rumbled and they both looked up, watching as the heavens opened and rain began to fall from a sky that had been growing darker over the last hour. Aramis closed his eyes, face still upturned, and let the water wash over him.

"I'm sorry it was you, Aramis," Treville said, voice ringing with sincerity.

Aramis brought his face back down and sighed, looking down at the loose dirt as the water soaked into it.

"He wasn't the same man I'd known before Savoy," he said, voice soft. The years had changed him; that night changed him. All he had known since then was pain and anger. It had consumed him until all he'd wanted was to just be free of it.

Aramis closed his eyes again, letting the rain beat down against the back of his neck. Treville stood silent at his side, reverent and respectful. After a moment, Aramis let out a breath and raised his head, opening his eyes again.

"Marsac's spirit died in that forest in Savoy five years ago," he stated, his heart accepting that truth for the first time. "It just took this long for his body to catch up."

He looked over at Treville, who was staring down at the grave with a pensive sorrow in his eyes – a festering guilt. As Aramis watched him, he remembered the day they'd met, so many years ago now. Treville had been full of righteous fury that a seventeen-year-old boy was being used as a spy. But Aramis had looked at him across the fire and said something that had become a familiar comfort to them in the years that followed.

"We're soldiers, Captain," he began. Treville's head shifted, eyes rising quickly to meet his, recognition already dawning in his gaze. "We follow our orders no matter where they lead, even to death," Aramis recited earnestly.

No matter how many years passed, how many times they said those words, Aramis still believed them now just as fervently as he had as a seventeen-year-old child soldier.

Next to him, Treville absorbed the familiar comfort and then nodded, accepting it; accepting the absolution Aramis was offering for the betrayal that had cost them both so much.

Treville held out a hand, a silent offering of kinship. In this moment they were on equal ground. Aramis shook the hand and when Treville smiled – a familiar, warm smile that had once been common place between them – Aramis couldn't help but smile in return.

Treville's hand tightened around his a moment before releasing it completely. He squeezed Aramis' shoulder and moved back to the horses, leaving Aramis to say his final goodbye in peace.

Aramis stared down at the grave again, hearing the sounds of battle rising around him. He saw an image of Marsac, looking at him from across the battlefield, and watched as he walked away. Aramis closed his eyes, and for the first time in five years did not try to call him back. Instead, he let his friend go.

Aramis opened his eyes...and the figment was gone.

"Rest now, Marsac," he said softly, drawing Marsac's sword from where he'd been carrying it at his side, "with your brothers." He drove the blade into the dirt, marking Marsac's grave.

Aramis forced himself to walk away, to leave Marsac behind.

And the overwhelming sense of _loss_ left him feeling gutted.

Treville was waiting for him, standing next to Esmé and gently stroking her nose.

He watched Aramis approach and step to Esmé's other side, combing his fingers through her wet mane.

"You could have told me the truth," Aramis pointed out quietly. "I would never have betrayed you or France. You must have known I'd never tell anyone."

"I know that," Treville assured immediately. "But I couldn't tell you."

"Why?" Aramis asked, genuinely perplexed.

"Because I had to protect you, no matter the cost."

"What are you talking about? Protect me from what?" Aramis asked, shaking his head in confusion.

"From the cardinal."

Aramis frowned, staring at Treville across Esme's brow.

"What do you mean?"

Treville drew in a deep breath and let it out as a sigh.

"The day you returned from Savoy, Richelieu informed me he wanted to question you."

"Question me?" Aramis repeated with a shiver. He knew what kind of 'questioning' the cardinal was known for.

"He wanted to know what you remembered. To know if you had any knowledge that was a danger to him and to France."

Aramis stared at him, horror bubbling up in his gut.

"That day I brought you into my office, to debrief you, the purpose was to find out what you knew."

"The day you convinced me it was the Spanish," Aramis replied lowly, remembering that day well.

Treville nodded, his eyes sad.

"I had to protect you, Aramis. If he had even suspected that you knew the truth, God knows what he would have done."

Aramis stared at him, eyes wide.

"I wanted to tell you," Treville confessed. "So many times… If only to ease the burden I knew you carried. But I couldn't risk it. I couldn't risk _you_."

Aramis looked away, closing his eyes and shaking his head in shocked disbelief. All this time, all these years….

"What is it?" Treville prodded.

"I thought…" Aramis shook his head again and then finally looked back at Treville. "I thought you _blamed _me."

Treville let out a sharp breath and shook his head in denial.

"For five years, you let me believe what happened that night was my responsibility," Aramis accused. "That those deaths were _my_ fault. You _let_ me carry that burden."

"It was never your fault," Treville stated firmly. "None of it was. I saw the weight you carried. Every time I looked at you. I wanted to tell you everything. I wanted to ease your suffering. But I couldn't. It was easier to just…create some distance."

Aramis stepped back, needing a different kind of distance.

"Easier for _you_, you mean. I _needed_ you," he confessed, saying the words out loud for the first time. "I needed you and you turned your back on me!" he accused, voice rising.

Treville lowered his gaze.

Aramis stared at him, unable to sort out if he was angry or hurt or just…tired.

"You were like my father," he reminded quietly, drawing Treville's gaze back to his. "Losing you… Thinking you blamed me… It nearly destroyed me."

"But it didn't," Treville pointed out. "You survived it."

Aramis looked away, clenching his jaw. He _had _survived, but not through any strength of his own. His salvation had come from Porthos and Athos. Without them, he never would have overcome Savoy.

"I had to protect you Aramis," Treville insisted, "even if it meant I lost you."

Aramis huffed out a strangled laugh, suddenly feeling exhausted.

"Well, congratulations. Success on all fronts," he announced, moving back to Esmé's side.

"Aramis…" Treville rubbed at his brow. "I know you're angry…"

"I'm not angry," Aramis denied honestly. Treville arched a doubtful brow. "I'm not," Aramis repeated. "I'm just…" he let out a deep breath, "I don't know what I am."

He pulled himself up into Esmé's saddle.

"Where are you going?" Treville asked warily.

"I don't know," Aramis replied, pulling Esmé around.

"You should speak to the others; they're worried about you," Treville counseled, making no attempt to prevent him from leaving.

Aramis huffed another laugh now – a bitter, hurt sound that left his throat feeling raw.

"I'm far beyond caring how they feel at the moment," he replied. "By your leave, Captain?" he asked formally.

Treville sighed, looking reluctant, but gave him a nod anyway.

"Esmé," Aramis murmured. Then, not even needing the prompting of heel to her side, Esmé started away from Treville at a steady gait.

He wasn't sure yet where they would go, but, as had become painfully apparent over the past day, he would be going there alone.

* * *

Porthos stopped his pacing when the sound of a cart coming through the gate drew his attention. He took a few steps out from the cover of the balcony, hope filling him when he saw Treville steering the cart. Athos stepped up next to him as they both searched for a sign of their missing brother.

"He's not with me," Treville said by way of greeting, stepping down from the cart and patting the stable boy on the shoulder as he ran up to take command of it and the horse. "And before you ask, I don't know where he went, either." With that he started up the steps towards his office.

Porthos shared a glance with Athos and they both started after him, jogging through the rain.

They followed Treville into his office without being invited and stood shoulder to shoulder before his desk. Pretending not to notice them, Treville sat down with a sigh, tossing his wet hat aside and running a hand down his face wearily.

The two Musketeers remained silent.

"Can I help you?" he demanded sharply, drawing his irritated gaze up to them.

"He would not speak to us last night," Athos began, "as you know."

"And wouldn't look at us this mornin' when we saw Savoy off," Porthos added.

"He left immediately after, with _you_," Athos finished.

Treville looked back and forth between them, seeming unperturbed by the implication.

"I took him to bury Marsac," he revealed bluntly.

Porthos frowned.

"Where?"

"Where do you think?" Treville scowled at him. "At the Musketeer cemetery."

Porthos frowned more deeply.

"He was a deserter," Athos pointed out, unknowingly echoing what Porthos had been thinking.

Something in Treville hardened, his sharp blue gaze flashing.

"He was a Musketeer before he was that." Then Treville softened a bit. "It was what Aramis wanted, to return him to his brothers. I could not deny him. We parted ways from there."

Porthos let out a shaky breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. Aramis had buried one of his oldest friends today, and they hadn't been there. Now he was out in the city, carrying that burden, _alone_.

"Do you have any idea where he might have gone?" Porthos asked quietly.

"You two have more knowledge of his habits than I do."

Porthos rubbed at his face, thinking over the _dozens_ of places Aramis may have hidden himself. If he truly did not want to be found, then they wouldn't find him.

"We can start at the Wren," Athos suggested.

Porthos nodded and they both turned towards the door.

"You haven't asked me, you know." Treville's voice brought them to a halt and pulled their attention back. "You haven't asked if it was true."

"We never believed it, Captain," Athos assured.

"We know who you are," Porthos added. "That was enough for us."

"That's touching," Treville replied mildly. "But sentimentality does not equate to justice or to truth."

"What are you saying?" Porthos asked warily.

"That there is a line between loyalty and willful ignorance. I am thankful for your loyalty, make no mistake. But you should _never_ hold such sentiment above _truth_ or _justice_. You would both do well to remember that in the future."

Porthos narrowed his eyes, feeling suddenly ill at the implication behind Treville words.

"Are you saying that it's true? That you did it?" he asked in a horrified whisper.

Treville lifted his chin.

"I did my duty to the king and to France," he stated firmly. But then, more softly, "But actions have consequences and I must carry the burden of mine for the rest of my life."

Porthos looked at Athos, unsurprised to see him almost equally shaken by Treville's vague confession.

"Does Aramis…" Athos started, trailing off.

"Aramis knows the truth," Treville replied. "He sought it out, for the sake of his fallen brothers…and for himself. He walked that road alone and the path he walks now is equally lonely." Treville gave them both a hard look. "Perhaps you should rectify that before it's too late."

Feeling chastised, Porthos nodded and saw Athos do the same. Together they quietly left Treville's office, moving out onto the balcony.

The rain was still falling steadily and it was unlikely to stop any time soon. It reminded him of the day prior, of Aramis walking away from them after they confronted Treville.

"_You may be content to do nothing… I am not."_

"We never should have let him go," Porthos stated suddenly.

Athos, it seemed, had been recalling the same moment.

"The accusations were madness," Athos reminded.

"Except they _weren't_, apparently," Porthos pointed out sharply.

Athos went on, unperturbed.

"For the information and evidence we had at the time – it _was_ madness."

Porthos blew out a breath, rubbing wearily at his eyes.

"Except it wasn't," he stated again, more quietly.

"We could not have known that," Athos defended softly.

Porthos looked at him, shaking his head.

"Aramis knew. He knew and we didn't believe him."

Athos blew out a sharp sigh and looked away, wrapping his hands around the rail.

"We broke our promise, Athos,"

Athos closed his eyes, dropping his head a little.

"If Aramis had to learn the truth of this," Porthos went on, "no matter what it was, he should have learned it with us by his side."

"Are you expecting me to argue with you?" Athos asked with a sideways look at him.

Porthos sighed.

"No. I just… I got so caught up in hating Marsac that I forgot where Aramis stood in all of this."

Athos drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"You weren't the only one to do that," he allowed.

Porthos shook his head, feeling his eyes sting.

"He wouldn't even _look_ at me this morning," he revealed, throat tight.

"We'll make it right," Athos vowed.

Porthos gave him a sidelong glance.

"We have to find him first. And if he doesn't want us to..."

"Then we'll keep looking for him until we do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Chapter 7
> 
> So, as you can see, Athos and Porthos realized they screwed up pretty quickly, but just not quickly enough. They didn't realize how badly they'd handled this until it had all gone so horribly wrong, and by then, Aramis wasn't in any place where he could deal with anything but his own grief.
> 
> Tomorrow...Aramis starts to spiral a bit, but Constance steps up and is a better bro than anyone else has been lately...take a look at the preview for Chapter 8...  
*****
> 
> "You're soaked through," she stated abruptly, "and shaking with cold. Come in and warm yourself."
> 
> But he shook his head.
> 
> "I should go," he refused, releasing her shoulders and retreating out of the house and off the front step and back into the rain.
> 
> "Wait!" she blurted, some deeply rooted instinct demanding that she not let him leave. Not like this. "Come in for some tea? Just a cup?"
> 
> The look he gave her then cut her right to the heart.
> 
> "Why would you want that?" he asked. "Why would you ever want me in your home again?" The damn fool sounded completely perplexed, as if he had expected her to turn her back on him forever.
> 
> "Because you do not answer for anyone's actions but your own," she pointed out sternly. "And all you've done is try to help a friend," she added more gently. "Now please. A cup of tea?"


	8. But Everyone Around Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who took the time to comment! HLN, Soccergem, jamepa, Daisy_Chain, and sundew!
> 
> I've mentioned in other stories how Constance stepped up during this mess, well here's the beginning of that, but don't get to excited...it's all baby steps at first.

* * *

_The worst pain in the world goes beyond the physical. Even further beyond any other emotional pain one can feel. It is the betrayal of a friend.  
_ **Heather Brewer**

* * *

Constance had only just sat down to measure and cut some linen after seeing d'Artagnan off when a knock came at the door.

"Of course," she muttered. "Why would I need to get any work done today."

A glance through the window as she made her way through the kitchen showed it to still be raining. Whoever was out there was likely drenched in the downpour, so at least it was likely important.

She pulled the door open with a smile.

"Can I hel- Oh…"

Standing on her doorstep was none other than Aramis.

The man was, indeed, soaked to the bone, but he didn't seem to notice. The hat she'd grown so used to him wearing was nowhere to be seen, leaving his hair to fall limply around his eyes. His horse was standing over near the hitching post, looking decidedly unperturbed by the rain.

Drawing her gaze back to Aramis, she noticed an unfamiliar line of weariness in his shoulders and a nasty bruise around his left eye.

"D'Artagnan isn't here," she told him when he only stared at her. "He left not five minutes ago to go find you lot."

"I'm not here to see d'Artagnan." Aramis raised a hand to brush his hair back from his face, and Constance narrowed her gaze when she saw his fingers shaking.

"Are you alright?" she couldn't help but ask.

"I've come to apologize," he said instead of answering.

"You did that already," she reminded, but then paused. D'Artagnan must have told him what Marsac tried to do to her. "I told d'Artagnan not to tell you…"

When Aramis blinked, a sudden frown turning down the corners of his mouth, Constance realized her mistake.

"Tell me what?" he asked. But when she didn't immediately answer, his frown deepened. "Tell me _what?_"

"It's nothing," she tried. "I'm fine."

Aramis stared at her, dark eyes intense and focused as he studied her.

"What did he do?" he finally asked, voice low and strangely calm.

"Aramis…"

"Constance," he stepped just inside the door, but instead of feeling threatened, she had to fight the urge to reach out and _hug_ him for the vulnerability and worry in his eyes, "what did Marsac do?"

"He…" She stopped herself, but when Aramis laid a gentle – if not vaguely trembling – hand on her elbow, she reluctantly went on. "He tried to force me…t-to… Well you can guess."

The hand on her elbow tightened and something in Aramis' eyes flared in horror. Then he abruptly backed away, releasing her elbow as if her touch burned. He stepped back into the downpour, chest heaving as if he'd just run through the streets.

"_Lo siento_," _(I'm sorry,) _he insisted, eyes wide and sincere. He didn't seem to notice is lapse in language as he stepped forward again, grasping both her shoulders. "I'm so sorry. I never should have brought him here. If I had known, I wouldn't have… I never would have…"

"Of course, you wouldn't," Constance assured, startled by the touch of wildness in his eyes. "You were only trying to help your friend."

"I…" Aramis stopped, the words seeming to get caught in his throat. The hands on her shoulders tightened again and she saw emotion welling up in his gaze. There was so much pain in his eyes, so much guilt, and heartbreak. "I'm so sorry," he said again, voice catching on the words.

There was something in his voice, some extra thread of devastation. This was about so much more than her, she realized. D'Artagnan had told her what happened – the broad strokes at least: Marsac was dead and Aramis had been forced to kill him.

As she looked into his eyes, she could see the weight of that choice bearing down on him. And she had added to it with her inadvertent confession about what Marsac had tried to do.

He was crumbling beneath it; she could see that clearly, no matter how he tried to hide it.

_Where are the others?_ she thought as she suddenly realized his friends were nowhere to be seen. They were_ always_ together. Why had they left him _alone_ after all that had happened? Why did men not _think_?

"You're soaked through," she stated abruptly, "and shaking with cold. Come in and warm yourself."

But he shook his head.

"I should go," he refused, releasing her shoulders and retreating out of the house and off the front step and back into the rain.

"Wait!" she blurted, some deeply rooted instinct demanding that she not let him leave. Not like this. "Come in for some tea? Just a cup?"

The look he gave her then cut her right to the heart.

"Why would you want that?" he asked. "Why would you ever want me in your home again?" The damn fool sounded completely perplexed, as if he had expected her to turn her back on him forever.

"Because you do not answer for anyone's actions but your own," she pointed out sternly. "And all you've done is try to help a friend," she added more gently. "Now please. A cup of tea?"

He stared at her for a long moment and she knew he was about to refuse again.

"Please?" she repeated softly, holding his gaze.

The following silence felt as if it lasted a lifetime. She wasn't sure what she would do if he refused again. All she was certain of was that she couldn't let him go.

Finally, though, he dipped his head in surrender.

Relieved, Constance stepped back, tilting her head a little towards the inner part of the house, encouraging him to come in.

He did, sliding past her to stand in the entryway. A puddle immediately started forming around him, but Constance wasn't worried about a bit of water.

"Here, come in near the fire," she suggested, motioning in to the warmth of the sitting room. His gaze shifted towards the front door, as if contemplating a quick retreat. "Don't you dare. You've promised me a cup of tea and I'll have it," she scolded.

His gaze snapped to hers in surprise.

"What?" she demanded, feeling self-conscious for some reason.

"Nothing." He shook his head slightly. "It's just no one ever notices those glances but Porthos," he admitted quietly.

"Well you've no need to escape from me," she pointed out with a warm quirk of her lips, moving past him and into the sitting room. "I'm only here to offer tea and keep you from catching your death."

Something loosened in his posture as he followed her a moment later. The change was small, but she saw it and smiled a bit wider.

"Now, come stand here near the fire. Dry off, warm up, and I'll go get the tea," she instructed, taking his elbow and pulling him over to stand next to the hearth. Since he didn't fight her guiding hand, she felt it was safe to leave him without fear that he'd vanish while she was out of the room.

It took her a few minutes in the kitchen to prepare the tea, but soon enough she had two steaming cups in hand as she made her way back to the sitting room.

Aramis was just where she'd left him, though he'd shifted a bit, bracing his left forearm against the wooden mantel. He was rubbing at his temple with that hand while the other had dropped to rest on the handle of one of his pistols.

His eyes were fixed on the flames of the fire, gaze distant.

Constance hesitated in the doorway and then drew in a fortifying breath, moving slowly closer. An instinct warned her not to move too quickly while she approached and to speak softly as she did.

"Here we are," she announced quietly, holding out one of the cups.

It took a moment, but his gaze focused and he looked at her. It took another moment before he lifted the hand resting on his pistol to take the cup.

"Thank you," he offered softly.

But instead of drinking it, he merely shifted it to his left hand and rested it on the mantel. His gaze returned to the flames.

Constance studied him for a moment.

She barely knew him. It had only been a little over two months since d'Artagnan had come to Paris and really introduced her to the Musketeers beyond business interactions. Before that, she'd only ever had a passing conversation with them. Then there was the small fact that she'd slapped him…twice. They weren't really friends and hadn't really gotten to know each other deeply. But she had noticed a few things.

He smiled often, a contagious thing that always seemed to draw an answering grin from those around him. He had a chivalrous streak that spoke of good breeding, but it was more than ingrained habit – He seemed to genuinely respect everyone he met, herself included.

Most of all, she had noticed he was kind, one of the kindest men she had ever met, even if he hid it behind humor sometimes.

It was that knowledge that made her heart ache as she watched him suffer under the weight of whatever hell these last days had put him through.

"You know," she ventured quietly, "I'm told I listen quite well."

His brow pulled together a little and he replied without lifting his gaze from the fire.

"I suppose I owe you an explanation," he reasoned.

"You don't owe me anything," she countered gently. "But if you want to talk, I'll listen."

At first, she thought he might just ignore the offer and remain silent. Several quiet minutes passed as he stared down at the flames and she tried not to stare at _him_.

She had nearly given up when he suddenly spoke, voice pitched low and soft.

"I was meant to lead the Musketeers one day," he revealed. "Did you know that?" His head tilted a little towards her, though his gaze remained fixed on the fire.

"No," she replied quietly.

"That future was one of the many things that died in Savoy."

He fell silent and Constance waited patiently to see if he would go on. It took a few moments, but eventually he did.

"I was one of the first Musketeers – recruited by Treville at the start of the regiment. Marsac came less than a year later, and though we hated each other at first, we became close friends – brothers really. We served together, fought together for four years after that."

Aramis' brow furrowed deeply as he stared down at the fire, and as she watched, Constance saw tension coiled tighter and tighter into his posture.

"I was assigned to lead a training exercise in the forests of Savoy. Over half the regiment was put under my command. I had been on a dozen such exercises during my years in the infantry and in then the Musketeers. It was a simple assignment – a glorified camping trip. It wasn't supposed to be dangerous."

Constance frowned, something in her memory pulling at her. Rumors and stories circulating around the city years ago of some sort of tragedy in the Musketeer ranks.

"When was this?" she asked carefully.

His head tilted a little more towards her, though his gaze had yet to rise.

"Five years ago," he replied, his eyes finally shifted to regard her. "Were you in Paris then?"

She nodded.

"I had just been married."

He nodded slightly.

"You probably heard the stories, then," he reasoned.

"There was some sort of tragedy," she recollected. "A massacre," she remembered suddenly.

He nodded, eyes on the flames again.

"You were there." she realized, horrified.

He simply nodded again.

"What happened?" she asked, fighting off the sudden urge to reach out and hug him as tightly as she could.

"We were set upon in the night. Most of the men didn't even have a chance to fight back; they were killed as they slept."

Constance drew in a sharp breath, eyes watering as she listened.

"I remember…" he seemed to drift from the moment, eyes growing distant as he stared into the hearth, falling back into memory, "waking with a jolt. Some instinct was telling me – screaming at me – that something was wrong. That I was in danger. Marsac and I were sharing a tent, so I woke him. We fought together then, side by side, as we had always done."

Constance joined him in staring down at the fire, if only to hide the tears gathering in her eyes.

"I only remember broken pieces of that night now…" Out of the corner of her eye she saw his hand drift to brush across the right side of his head, above his ear. "I was injured. Marsac got me to safety, tended my wounds and then…" he took a shuddering breath, "he hid while the rest of our brothers were slaughtered."

All at once, his gaze refocused and he looked over at her. If he noticed the tear that had escaped down her cheek, he didn't react to it.

"It wasn't what I would have done. I would have died fighting for them. Losing battle or not, they deserved that from me. But I could never hold Marsac to my standard. Who can blame him for wanting to live?"

"No one," Constance replied softly.

Aramis gave her a small, tired smile for her answer. Then with a sigh he closed his eyes, brow furrowing.

"I remember waking up in the trees, alone, confused, and in pain. I stumbled through the trees to find him sitting amongst the bodies, overcome with guilt. I don't… I don't remember the rest clearly, but…" His eyes opened and he looked over at her, brow pinched. "I think I begged him not to go, but he did anyway."

Constance drew in a sharp breath, eyes stinging.

"He left you behind?" she asked, horrified.

Aramis shifted his gaze away instead of replying.

"The next days are a jumble. I don't remember much of it clearly. Later, they told me that the Spanish were responsible for it all."

"What do you mean 'told you'?" Constance asked with a frown. "Wasn't it the Spanish?"

Aramis looked at her then, gaze tortured with whatever truths he had discovered.

"That's what Marsac spent the last five years trying to find out."

"And did he?" she wondered.

Aramis sighed.

"He found a truth much worse than that," he replied vaguely. Constance didn't press for details. She wasn't sure she wanted to know them. "He held Treville responsible and…he was going to kill him."

Constance nodded, having heard this part from d'Artagnan earlier.

"I had to stop him," Aramis stated. Then he shifted his gaze back down to the flames. "I _had _to stop him," he whispered again, more to himself than to her.

Constance pressed her hand to her mouth, trying to quell her own raging emotions. Of all the stories she'd expected to hear, this one was so much worse than she had imagined. She closed her eyes and drew in a slow breath, steeling herself. Then she lifted her tea to set it on the mantel and used both hands to wipe at her own cheeks.

She breathed again and reached out, laying a gentle hand on Aramis' shoulder.

He didn't exactly flinch, but his arm went rigid.

"Aramis, look at me," she requested gently, but also as firmly as she could muster.

After a moment he turned his head to look at her. She shifted closer, pulling him around to face her properly. Then she framed his face in her hands and looked him directly in the eyes.

"You are not to blame for Marsac's choices," she told him firmly.

He immediately tried to pull away, but she curled her fingers into the back of his neck.

"Look at me," she requested again.

Reluctantly, his gaze shifted back to hers.

"This was not your fault," she insisted softly.

Something hard and angry bubbled to life in his eyes.

"He saved my life," Aramis stated, tone sharp, as he pulled her hands away from his face, "and I _killed_ him. Whatever weight I carry for that is no more than I deserve."

"Aramis…" she tried to soothe.

But he turned away, bracing both hands on the mantel and closing himself off from her once again.

She jumped at a sudden knock at the front door.

She looked over her shoulder towards the sound, then looked back at Aramis.

Tension was coiled tightly in his shoulders and she knew she was rapidly losing ground.

Whoever it was knocked again, more loudly.

"Just…don't move," she instructed and then hurried from the room.

She took a moment to collect herself, taking a cleansing breath before pulling the door open.

"Madame DuPont," she greeted flatly. "What can I do for you?"

"I noticed a strange man came in with you and hasn't left. New boarder?" her neighbor asked, leaning to try and see further into the house. Constance shifted to block her view.

"And why is that any concern of yours?" Constance challenged.

"You really shouldn't take on new boarders without discussing it with your husband," Madame DuPont lectured.

"I didn't," Constance replied simply.

Madame DuPont's eyes grew large.

"You mean to say you've been entertaining a man who is not boarding here?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying," Constance agreed with a grin. "That should feed your gossip for at least a few days."

With that, she closed the door in the old nosy woman's face.

She might be more concerned for her reputation if everyone on the block didn't already know Madame DuPont was a nasty gossip who spewed more lies than she did truth.

Constance made her way back to the sitting room. But when she got there, she found it empty.

Aramis was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Chapter 8
> 
> I always thought there was something pleasantly disarming about Constance, something about her that made you want to trust her. This is only the start of her being the absolute best, so get excited...well as excited as you can get when there's still a lot of angst to come.
> 
> Now, enjoy a preview of Chapter 9!  
******
> 
> The Musketeer was rising to his feet unsteadily. Marc reached out, intending to support him, but Aramis jerked his arm out of reach.
> 
> Marc blew out a sharp breath and held up his hands in a show of no-threat.
> 
> "It's me, you ass," Marc snapped, twitching against the urge to reach out again when Aramis stumbled weak-kneed toward the wall, catching himself there. "What the hell is going on?"
> 
> "You interrupted a very important lesson in civility," Aramis replied, chuckling lightly.
> 
> "Your lesson or theirs?" Marc wondered with a sigh.
> 
> "It was more of a collective effort," Aramis answered.


	9. My Heart Can't Possibly Break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all the commenters! Penguinpickle, jamepa, sundew, issa, thingswaitingtobewritten, and Kitperry!
> 
> Some of you may recall one other piece of this story that's been mentioned in another fic, I'm curious who remembers it! Even if you don't, it's about to happen! Enjoy!

_It is more shameful to distrust our friends than to be deceived by them.  
_ **Confucious**

* * *

Aramis drained the cup of wine before him and slid it across the rough bar top to Thomas, the owner of the tavern.

"I'm going to need something stronger," he instructed.

Thomas arched a brow but didn't argue or question him. Instead he retrieved a bottle from under the counter and poured it into the cup.

Aramis knew better than to ask what it was.

He brought the cup to his mouth and downed the contents in one long swallow. Thomas' other brow rose to match the first, surprised by Aramis' daring.

The liquid burned its way down his throat and, despite the injury to his pride, he couldn't hold back a cough.

He placed the cup back down on the counter with a crack and cleared his throat.

"If you don't mind?" he requested, pushing the cup back to Thomas.

The tavern owner blinked at him.

"Been a while since you drank like this," he commented blandly.

"I don't recall needing your permission in the past." Aramis nudged the cup closer to him.

The man stared at him and then sighed, refilling the cup.

Aramis combed a hand up through his hair, pushing it out of his eyes and sipped the drink more slowly this time. Whatever this was, it was strong. He was already feeling pleasantly fuzzy.

"Well, well, well… Look who's wandered away from the Garrison: a little lost Musketeer."

Aramis rolled his eyes heavenward and sighed out a breath. He lifted the cup and drained its contents.

"You don't belong in here, _Musketeer_," a Red Guard hissed as he stepped up next to Aramis. Another Red Guard slid in at his other side, boxing him in.

Unconcerned, Aramis slid his cup back to Thomas.

"Don't you have orphan children to harass, Gerard?" Aramis countered tiredly.

"This tavern? It's the Red Guards'. You don't belong here," Gerard insisted lowly.

Aramis accepted his refilled cup back from Thomas.

"I've been coming to this tavern for years," Aramis replied mildly. "Since before _you_ were a Red Guard. Thomas knows me, don't you Thomas?" Aramis lifted his cup to his lips again.

Thomas looked at them all with disinterest.

"I serve whoever pays. Aramis always pays," he answered placidly.

Aramis struck two fingers off of his brow in thankful salute and placed his cup, half full now, back on the bar top.

"Touching, Thomas. Thank you."

Gerard just scowled more deeply.

"You aren't welcome here," he hissed.

Aramis glanced up at Thomas, who gave him a stern look. Right. No brawling on the premises, not after last time. He quirked his brow in acquiescence and drained the rest of his cup.

The liquid, whatever it was, burned its way down his throat again as he shifted to look at Gerard properly.

"Apologies," he said. "I don't speak idiot."

"Perhaps I should make my point in a way you'll understand, then," Gerard growled.

"Yes!" Aramis grinned widely. "Let's do that. Outside, though. Thomas won't ever allow me back if I have another brawl inside."

He pushed away from the bar and only stumbled a little on his way to the door. By the time he made it outside and into the neighboring alley, his vision was wobbling more often than it wasn't.

Thomas could always be counted on to have something on hand that would get you drunk with unpleasant speed.

Gerard followed him out, but when Aramis turned to face him, there were five other Red Guards behind him.

"Well come on then," Aramis taunted with a feral grin. "Teach me a lesson."

Gerard charged forward and the others followed closely behind.

* * *

"I _told_ you: he was just gone when I came back. He must have gone out the back door," Constance explained for what felt like the hundredth time.

"But how did he leave without you noticing?" Porthos demanded anxiously.

"By doing it _quietly_," Constance replied, throwing up her hands in exasperation. "I was a bit distracted by the accusations of infidelity!"

Porthos opened his mouth to speak again but Athos held up a hand to stop him.

"Did he mention where he might go?"

"No," she answered honestly.

"He left Esmé," d'Artagnan reminded, coming in from settling the horse in the stable. "He wasn't planning to go too far."

"If he was planning at all," Porthos muttered.

"Even so," Athos spoke up, "he left her behind. That means he will come back."

"But where is he _now_?" Porthos wondered, pacing over to the window and looking out, as if waiting for Aramis to appear.

Constance looked around at them, all in varying states of aggravation that they hadn't been able to corner Aramis and demand his forgiveness as they'd hoped. She remembered looking into Aramis' eyes and seeing devastation. She remembered seeing the weight bearing down him with no one but her around to help him bear it. Because not one of them had _been there_.

Quite suddenly, she was furious.

"He's probably gone as far from you lot as he can get," she snapped.

All three of them turned to look at her with wide, shocked eyes.

"What?!" she demanded.

"That was a bit harsh, don't you think?" d'Artagnan replied, watching her warily.

"Was it?" she demanded, suddenly feeling every bit of emotion that had passed through her over the last hours rise up like a tide. "Was it _harsh_?"

"Constance…" D'Artagnan's eyes were wide and wounded now.

"No! You don't get to look at me like that! Like you're the _victim_ in this."

"Is there something you would like to say to us?" Athos asked calmly, diplomatically.

"Yes," Constance answered sharply. "What in the _bloody hell_ is wrong with you?"

She watched d'Artagnan slink backwards a step. Athos shifted a look at Porthos, who looked properly chastised already. And she hadn't even gotten started.

"Where _were_ you?" she demanded.

They all exchanged a confused glance.

"We've been searching the city for hours…" Porthos hedged warily.

"No, not _now_, you idiot. Where were you _then_?" Constance corrected sharply. "He told me everything," she revealed. "About what happened five years ago, about what happened over the last two days. And my only question is _where were you_? Why, in God's name, was he facing all of it _alone_? You're supposed to be like brothers. I thought that meant something to all of you!"

"It does!" Porthos argued, voice thick with emotion. "Aramis _is_ my brother, in every way that could ever matter."

"Except when it mattered to _him_, you mean," she shot back sternly.

Porthos flinched as if she'd reached out and struck him. His gaze shifted away, but not before she saw the sheen of moisture welling in it. She moved her attention to Athos, whose jaw was set, gaze steady as he regarded her.

"Your _brother_, nearly died five years ago," she reminded. "He was the victim of an unspeakable tragedy. A tragedy that claimed the lives of _twenty_ men under his command. And now he finally had a chance to find the _truth_ about why it happened." She held Athos' gaze as she went on. "And you abandoned him to seek that truth alone."

Athos' eyes flared with regret and guilt a moment before he dropped his gaze away from hers.

"What's worse, you left him with _Marsac_ as his only ally. A man who had betrayed him once already. And when Marsac couldn't handle the truth that they found, he betrayed him _again_ by forcing a horrible choice on him. And none of _you _were there to stop it."

Her heart had made its way up to lodge somewhere in her throat, but even as her eyes watered with hot angry tears, her tone was stern and passionate.

"At least one of you should have been there," she accused. "So I ask again: _where were you_?"

It was Porthos who replied, his voice thick and trembling with emotion.

"Not where we belonged," he admitted quietly, lifting his gaze to meet hers.

She could see the pain in his eyes, the horror at realizing the damage they'd caused.

"I'll make it right," he vowed.

"We both will," Athos added softly.

"See that you do," she instructed firmly.

When none of them moved, she sighed impatiently.

"You won't do it _here_! He's been gone an hour. If you want to fix this, you'll have to find him."

They all jumped into motion after that, and a few moments later Constance was alone once again.

* * *

Marc Defrain strode towards his preferred tavern, hardly noticing the scuffle going on in the alley way. There was always a brawl of some sort going on here. Thomas must have seen it coming and forced them outside.

Marc pulled the door open and stepped inside, acknowledging Thomas' nodded greeting by approaching the bar counter.

"How's your friend fairing?" Thomas asked curiously.

Marc frowned in confusion.

"Come again?"

"Aramis, the Musketeer you're always hanging about with…"

"Aramis was here?" Marc asked, surprised. Aramis hardly ever came here unless he was in a decidedly poor mood.

Thomas nodded.

"Stewing for a fight. You know how he gets. He downed half a bottle of my homemade stuff and then goaded some of yours into taking it outside."

Marc stared at him, dumbfounded. He knew exactly how Aramis could get sometimes. He'd get sarcastic and taunting, picking a fight with anyone willing. Marc had never quite figured out if Aramis did it to punish the world or to punish himself.

Suddenly, he remembered the brawl in the alley.

With a curse, he turned and ran back to the door, bursting into the late afternoon and running into the alley. There were two Red Guards moaning on the ground already, mercifully conscious, if not entirely mobile. Aramis hadn't done any permanent damage to them.

The rest of the sea of red before him was clustered around a familiar outfit of brown leather. Two of them had Aramis by the arms and a third had just finished punching him across the cheek. Another, Marc noticed, was collapsed behind them on the ground, grasping between his legs with a reddened face.

Most disconcerting though, was the grin on Aramis' face.

"Hey!" Marc snapped, grabbing a handful of red leather and pulling the closest man away before he could hit Aramis again. "That's enough! You're done!"

"This is none of your concern, DeFrain," spat the guard he'd thrown back.

"I'm making it my concern, Gerard," Marc snapped back, shoving away one of the men holding Aramis' arm. The third man jumped away without having to be forced and Aramis collapsed down to his hands and knees, but didn't crumble completely. A small relief.

"Stay out of this," Gerard growled, shifting forward a step.

"Take another step and see what happens," Marc threatened, dropping a hand to rest on his sword.

Gerard froze.

"All of you, walk away. Take them," he nodded at the men on the ground, "and _walk away_. I'm doing you a favor."

With a great deal of cursing and muttering, the three men collected their comrades and shuffled out of the alley. Only when they were out of sight, did Marc turn to regard Aramis.

The Musketeer was rising to his feet unsteadily. Marc reached out, intending to support him, but Aramis jerked his arm out of reach.

Marc blew out a sharp breath and held up his hands in a show of no-threat.

"It's _me_, you _ass_," Marc snapped, twitching against the urge to reach out again when Aramis stumbled weak-kneed toward the wall, catching himself there. "What the hell is going on?"

"You interrupted a very important lesson in civility," Aramis replied, chuckling lightly.

"Your lesson or theirs?" Marc wondered with a sigh.

"It was more of a collective effort," Aramis answered, straightening his posture a bit, though he kept a stabilizing hand against the wall. Marc watched him, frowning.

"Are you drunk?" he finally asked.

Aramis huffed a chuckle and spat out a glob of blood.

"I've made every effort to be."

Marc sighed, glancing back towards the mouth of the alley.

"Where are Athos and Porthos?" he asked.

He was startled by the change that swept across Aramis' face. Gone was the slightly giddy, drunkenness and the post-brawl high. In its place was a concerning mixture of pain, betrayal, and sadness.

"I don't know," Aramis answered wearily, shifting to lean back against the wall. "I don't care," he added miserably.

Concerned now, Marc stepped closer.

"Aramis, what happened?" he asked bluntly.

"Nothing," Aramis denied, shaking his head, but refusing to meet his eyes.

"Usually you lie better than that," Marc accused. "Something happened."

"Why do you say that?" Aramis asked, feigning ignorance _almost_ convincingly.

"Because you're brawling in the streets with _six_ of the Red Guard! Tell me, how long were you going to let them think they were winning? How long until you snapped and took out all of your anger on them? Another minute? Two?"

Aramis clenched his jaw, but didn't deny the accusation.

"I know you," Marc reminded. "I know how you fight and I know you could have put every one of them down in hand-to-hand without being so dramatic about it. Yet you didn't. So, who were you planning to punish? Yourself? Or them?"

Aramis looked away towards the back of the alley.

Marc moved closer, leaning a shoulder against the wall next to Aramis and studying him for a moment.

"What happened, Aramis?" he asked again, quiet but firm.

His gut was warning him it was something terrible. Not much could drive Aramis to this state. Even less could make him flee the company of his chosen brothers.

Aramis drew in a shaky breath and turned his head back to neutral.

"Marsac… He came back," he finally revealed without looking at him. There was something carefully and purposefully controlled in his voice and it set Marc on edge. His expression gave nothing away – the mask Aramis tended to wear made him unreadable in moments like this.

"What did that bloody traitor want?" Marc demanded lowly.

"Marc!" Aramis scolded tiredly, a fissure appearing in his expression. Leaking through the break, Marc could see a swirling of devastation, pain, and guilt.

"Sorry," he replied contritely. He'd never liked Marsac, but to be fair he'd hardly known the man. "Where is he?" he asked more calmly.

Aramis shook his head slowly and pushed suddenly away from the wall.

"I should go."

"I don't think so," Marc shifted blocking his path. "Not in your state. I let you walk out there, you're just going to go looking for trouble again."

"Are you my mother, Marc?" Aramis taunted, trying to move past him.

Marc caught his arm and stopped him.

The look Aramis gave him was full of warning.

"Not your mother," he replied calmly. "But I _am _your friend, and I'm not letting you walk away like this."

"Not _letting_ me?" Aramis scoffed, attempting to pull his arm free.

The ensuing scuffle was short. No matter how much he might be able to hide it, Aramis _was_ drunk. And Marc was a great deal more competent than the men Aramis had tangled with a few moments ago.

He slammed Aramis back against the wall, a bit more roughly than he'd intended, but it got his point across. He pressed his arm across the marksman's chest firmly, holding him in place.

"Aramis," he pleaded. "Talk to me, _mon ami." (my friend.)_

"_Muerto." (Dead.)_ Aramis muttered softly.

Marc went rigid. He knew enough Spanish from years of friendship with this man to know what that meant.

"What?" he breathed.

"Marsac. He's _dead_," Aramis stated flatly.

Marc blinked, a stirring of alarm rising in his heart.

"What?" he breathed. "How?"

Emotion broke through the stoicism of Aramis' face and the marksman dropped his head, instinctively hiding the lapse.

"Me," he whispered lowly in response. Then with a ragged breath, he finally looked up at Marc, meeting his gaze. "_I_ killed him," he confessed.

Then his expression crumpled, and he looked away again, shaking his head as if to deny the emotion trying to fight its way free. Dragging in a shaking breath, Aramis dropped his head back, letting it thump against the alley wall with closed eyes.

Marc forced himself to remain calm and collected. He may not have cared for Marsac, but he knew what the man had meant to Aramis. Even more, Marsac had been the only other survivor of Savoy, the only one that would ever truly _know_ what Aramis had endured there.

"Aramis," he entreated softly, "tell me what happened."

Aramis lifted a hand, pressing his palm against his forehead and then dragging his hand down his face. He pulled his head forward and looked at Marc with an unfamiliar vulnerability in his eyes.

"He was lost to me," Aramis explained, voice ragged. "He would have killed Treville." He drew in a shuddering breath. "I had to do it," he added softly, but Marc wasn't sure who he was trying to convince – Marc or himself.

"Kill Treville? Why?" Marc wondered, reeling.

The next breath Aramis drew in seemed to steady him a bit.

"He held him responsible for Savoy."

Marc felt a cold fissure of dread slice through him.

"Was he?" he asked coldly.

Aramis sighed, dropping his head back against the wall again.

"In a way," he admitted. "But it wasn't his fault… No more than it was mine, at least."

"It wasn't _your_ fault at all," Marc snapped.

He watched Aramis close his eyes and let out a shaky breath, acknowledging the words but not absorbing them. Eventually, he drew his head forward and met Marc's gaze.

"I had to do it," he stated, sounding as if he was desperately trying to convince himself of the truth behind the words.

"Yes, you did," Marc agreed, validating the choice without hesitation. "What did the others say?" he demanded. If one of them had made Aramis feel guilty, had made him question his instincts in this awful situation, Marc would see to it that they recognized their grave error.

"Nothing," Aramis replied, letting his head fall back again. "They weren't there."

Marc frowned.

"No one was there," Aramis went on softly, almost absently.

Fury sliced through him.

"Where were they?" he asked sharply.

Aramis just shrugged wearily without lifting his head.

"I don't know."

Marc had the abrupt urge to go find Athos and Porthos and punch them both squarely in the nose.

Instead, he forced himself to take a calming breath and released his arm where it was pressed against Aramis' chest. His shifted, wrapping a hand around the back of Aramis' neck and pulling his head forward until their foreheads bumped together.

"I'm so sorry, _mon ami," _he offered sincerely.

Some of the tension faded out of Aramis' posture and after a moment, he sighed.

"I'm so tired," Aramis confessed. "Tired of all of it."

Marc squeezed the back of his neck and then straightened.

"Come on, I'll walk you back to the Garrison, keep you out of trouble," he teased.

But Aramis shook his head, tugging his arm away when Marc tried to pull him away from the wall.

"I don't want to go there," Aramis argued firmly.

Marc studied him for a moment and then shrugged.

"Alright, where to then? You can't come back with me. You _did_ just start a brawl with six Red Guards and they'll likely have spread the word."

Aramis sighed a little.

"I know a place."

* * *

Constance blinked when a knock came at the front door. She looked up from the cup of tea she had been absently stirring as she stared blankly into space. She stood, hurrying to the door, hoping for good news that Aramis had been found and fences had been mended.

She pulled the door open and frowned.

A Red Guard stood on her doorstep and draped against his side was Aramis, unconscious.

The Musketeer's arm was pulled over the Red Guard's shoulder, secured by the stranger's hold on his wrist, while the man's other hand wrapped around Aramis' waist, clutching his belt.

"What did you do to him?" Constance demanded.

The man frowned at her.

"He faded on me about halfway here…" the Red Guard replied easily. "He's had a lot to drink and then a bit of a brawl on top of it. I'm Marc Defrain by the way."

Constance stared at him skeptically then shifted her attention to Aramis. He had fresh bruises coming out on his face, a smear of blood running down his nose into his beard, and what looked like a fresh cut across his cheek.

"He'll be alright," Marc assured, something unexpectedly warm in his voice. "Aramis is tougher than any man has a right to be."

She looked back at the stranger.

"Why would you help him?" she asked warily.

Marc sighed, adjusting his hold on Aramis so that he was more secure against his side.

"He and I served in the infantry together, back before there were Musketeers and Red Guards. We agreed a long time ago that no matter what, we wouldn't forget where we started. He's always had my back when it truly mattered and I've always tried to do the same."

His voice rang with sincerity and she couldn't help but believe him.

"Well," she sighed, "bring him in then."

She stepped aside and let him haul Aramis through the door. Once she'd closed it behind him, she led him back to d'Artagnan's room.

"Put him in there," she instructed. "We'll let him sleep it off."

She watched from the doorway as Marc carefully lowered Aramis to the bed. Then, with far more care than she would expect from a Red Guard, he arranged Aramis' limbs comfortably and pulled a blanket over him. Finally, he leaned in and rested his palm against Aramis' neck.

She thought for a moment he might say something, but in the end he just sighed and then withdrew. He retreated to stand with her in the doorway.

"Is he alright?" she asked quietly.

"A few cuts and bruises have never been enough to slow him down," Marc replied with a smirk that bordered on proud.

"That's not exactly what I meant," Constance sighed out.

The Red Guard grimaced.

"I don't know," he admitted softly. "I've never seen him like this before. Refusing to see Athos and Porthos?" Marc shook his head, obviously at somewhat of a loss.

"They let him down a bit, I think," Constance hedged carefully, not entirely sure what she should reveal.

"They let him down a lot," he countered immediately, gaze still fixed on Aramis. "He'll forgive them, though," Marc went on. "It's who he is – forgiving to a fault. Just make sure they give him the space to do it when _he's_ ready," he suggested, finally turning to meet her gaze. "I think he simply needs some time."

She nodded.

"I won't tell them he's here... Not yet at least," she promised.

Marc nodded, looking relieved.

"You'll look after him?" he asked seriously.

She nodded.

"I promise," she vowed.

Marc nodded again and stepped away, heading back for the door. Constance followed him to see him out.

"Thank you," she offered. "For getting him back here safely."

Marc waved a dismissive hand and stepped out into the early evening. He took a few steps away and then paused, turning back to face her.

"Thank you," he said sincerely. "If something happens…"

"I'll send word," she assured. "Marc Defrain of the Red Guard," she recited.

He nodded in satisfaction, looking relieved.

"Thank you," he stated again and turned away, striding down the street.

Constance turned back into the house and closed the door. She strode with purpose towards the kitchen, intent to retrieve a bowl of water and a clean cloth. Aramis' face as covered in blood. _That_ she could do something about.

She was just reaching for a bowl on the shelf when the back door flew open.

Nearly dropping the bowl in her surprise, Constance whirled to face the door.

D'Artagnan blinked at her with wide eyes.

"Uh… Sorry…" he offered with a contrite grin.

"What are you doing here?!" she demanded sharply.

"Um…I live here?" he replied, eyeing her with wary confusion.

She gave him a flat look and set about filling the bowl with water.

"Why aren't you with the others?" she asked, reaching for a few clean, folded cloths.

"They went back to the Garrison. We searched everywhere and couldn't find him. I think they're hoping he'll come back there."

"Not bloody likely," Constance muttered under her breath.

"What are you doing?" he asked curiously, venturing closer. She watched him look from the bowl of water and the cloths in her hand to her face, then back down to the bowl and cloths.

She bit her lip, shifting her gaze towards the doorway that lead to where Aramis was sleeping.

"He's here," d'Artagnan guessed softly, "isn't he."

She looked up to meet his eyes.

"A Red Guard just brought him back."

D'Artagnan's eyebrows rose in surprise.

"He was with Marc?"

"So you know him? The Red Guard?"

"He and Aramis were in the–"

"Infantry together, yes, I know," Constance interrupted.

D'Artagnan was already headed to the back door.

"I should go get the others."

"You stop right there!" she snapped, making his freeze in his tracks. "You'll do no such thing."

"Constance, they're worried sick."

"And Aramis is _sleeping_! Something he desperately needs right now. Bringing them here now would just stir things up. Besides, if he wanted to see them, he'd have had Marc take him to the Garrison."

"But they've been looking for him all day," d'Artagnan pointed out with a frown.

"And he's been avoiding them all day! Shouldn't that count for something?" she countered with an arched brow.

"So, you would have them worry all night?" he accused.

"Maybe what _they_ feel isn't the most important thing right now! Have you considered that?" she argued. She pointed in the direction of where Aramis was sleeping. "_He's _the one who's been chewed up and spit out over the last two days. _He's_ the one who buried his friend today – a friend he had to kill _himself_. Maybe what _he_ feels should be what's most important."

D'Artagnan let out a slow, deep breath and came back over to her.

"Maybe you're right," he admitted. "I won't go," he promised. "Not until morning at least."

Constance nodded. She would take the victory, small as it was.

"Fine. Now come and help me. He's passed out drunk at the moment, but he's still drenched from running about in the rain. And he's got blood all over his face."

Mercifully, d'Artagnan didn't ask questions. He just grabbed the bowl she offered him and followed her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Chapter 9
> 
> Marc! Of course Marc had to make an appearance! Aramis and Porthos are my favorite BroTP, (and Athos of course) but I have a special place in my heart for the oddity of a Red Guard and a Musketeer having a friendship that has endured for years and predated both regiments.
> 
> And how about Constance giving the boys a piece of her mind?! It's easy, when you know you've done wrong to focus too much on making YOURSELF feel better by trying to make it right as soon as possible. But sometimes, the wronged party needs something different. In this case, Aramis needs time.
> 
> Anyway, more to come tomorrow including the moment that will lay the true foundation for Aramis and Constance's friendship.
> 
> Here's a preview!  
****
> 
> "I know it must feel as if you're all alone in the world right now," she said softly.
> 
> He looked away then, but she reached out, turning his face back to look up at her.
> 
> "But you're not. I'm right here. And I'm on your side."
> 
> Her heart nearly broke at the insecurity that rose in his gaze.
> 
> "You don't even know me," he pointed out skeptically.
> 
> "I know enough," she countered.


	10. I Lose my Way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who commented on the last chapter! Soccergem, Daisy_Chain, sundew, and jamepa!
> 
> Enjoy the next one!

* * *

_Betrayal is never easy to handle and there is no right way to accept it.  
_ **Christine Feehan**

* * *

Porthos couldn't bring himself to go up to bed. Instead, he and Athos sat at the long table in the refectory, sharing a bottle of wine in silence, brooding over the day.

Aramis had vanished in a way only he could have. He'd disappeared into the nooks and crannies of the city and wouldn't be ferreted out until he was ready.

And they deserved it, Porthos knew. They deserved much worse as far as he was concerned, but knowing that didn't lessen the sting. Aramis didn't want them around…and that hurt.

"He'll forgive us, right?" Porthos asked suddenly, staring into his wine cup, hoping to divine guidance from it.

Athos lifted his gaze from the knot in the table he'd been studying.

"You know he will."

"Maybe he shouldn't," Porthos muttered. "Maybe we don't deserve it."

"He'll forgive us anyway," Athos replied, a rare warmth in his tone.

Porthos sighed. Of course he would. Because Aramis had the most forgiving heart of any man Porthos had ever met. Somehow, that made him feel worse.

They both looked up when a small body scampered into the Garrison, evading the hands of the guard on duty and trotting right up to Porthos.

"You Porthos?" the young boy demanded.

"Who's askin'?" Porthos asked.

"A man named Defrain paid me a coin to tell you he was outside."

Then the boy scampered off again.

"Defrain is here?" Athos wondered. "Why?"

"And why not just come to the gate?" Porthos added.

But he was already standing to go and investigate. Athos followed him and together they moved through the gate out into the street.

Porthos spied Marc leaning against the far alley wall, watching them with crossed arms. They approached warily. Marc rarely visited the Garrison, and when he did it was always to see Aramis.

"Defrain," Porthos greeted.

"Why the subterfuge?" Athos demanded.

"I owe the guard on duty from a card game. I'd rather not pay up until I have a chance to win it back," he replied with a shrug.

"What do you want?" Porthos asked, rubbing at his eyes wearily.

"I've heard you lost something."

Hope flared in Porthos' chest and a surge of adrenaline rose in him.

"You know where he is," he realized.

"I do," Marc admitted, but then gave them both a hard look. "I fished him out of a street brawl with six Red Guards."

The hope was swiftly replaced by alarm.

"Is he alright?"

"A bit bruised, but I got there before it got too serious."

"Where is he?" Athos demanded.

Defrain huffed and shook his head.

"I'm not telling you."

"Why not?" Porthos snapped.

"In case it escaped your attention, he doesn't want to see you."

Athos pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, letting out a sharp breath of annoyance.

"Then why are you even here?"

"Because when he's thinking straight again, he would hate himself for letting you two worry all night. I'd rather save him another burden." Marc's scowl and tightly crossed arms showed his contempt for the two of them, and for his part Porthos felt similarly about his own actions towards their mutual friend. But he knew that as much as Marc disliked them at the moment and would be more than pleased to see them hurt, he wouldn't do anything that would harm Aramis, physically or otherwise.

"Is he alright?" Porthos asked again, more quietly this time.

Marc met his entreating gaze with a glare.

"I'm not here to ease your guilt. He's safe and secure for the night, that's all I came to tell you. You two have made a mess of this. Now _fix_ it." He pushed past them and strode away without a backward glance.

Athos clenched his jaw, closing his eyes and letting out a slow breath.

"I really don't like him."

"I've never been fond of him either," Porthos agreed. "But he means something to Aramis and, like or not, he's always come through when it mattered. And he didn't have to come here tonight," he reminded.

Athos just twitched his brow dismissively.

"What are we supposed to do now?" Porthos wondered.

"Sleep?" Athos suggested.

"Not bloody likely."

"Drink?"

"That's more like it."

* * *

D'Artagnan hesitated in the doorway to his room, a frown pulling down at the corners of his mouth as he peered inside.

"What are you waiting for?" Constance nudged at his back, forcing him to step over the threshold.

She stepped up next to him and together they stared at the man sleeping in the bed.

"What happened?" d'Artagnan asked quietly, wincing at the bruises already darkening on Aramis' face.

"His friend, Marc, said he got into a brawl with some Red Guards."

D'Artagnan's eyes widened.

"A brawl?" he squawked.

Constance jabbed him in the side with her elbow.

"Shhhh! Give me that." She took the bowl from him and set it on the small table against the wall. "Here." She dug into d'Artagnan's things and retrieved a shirt and trousers. She shoved them into his hands. "I'll give you a few minutes. Help him get changed out of those wet clothes before he catches cold. I'll come in after to help clean that blood off."

"What? Me?" he demanded in a low whisper.

"Would you have me do it?" she hissed, pushing him toward the bed. "I'm a married woman!"

D'Artagnan sputtered after her as she strode out of the room, quietly pulling the door closed after her. Left alone with Aramis, d'Artagnan just stood there for a moment, looking down at the sleeping man.

D'Artagnan had seen Aramis asleep a handful of times in the two months since he'd come to Paris, all of which were when they were out on a mission. He wasn't a sound sleeper, not by any stretch. He muttered and mumbled and dreamed. Never good dreams, d'Artagnan had noticed. When they were traveling, Porthos always seemed to sleep within arm's reach. Once, d'Artagnan had even seen him sleep with his back pressed firmly against Porthos'.

But there was no sign of such unrest tonight.

Instead of the usual furrowed brow, Aramis' expression was lax, nearly peaceful.

Waking him seemed to be a cruel thing to do, but Constance was right. Aramis was still damp from the rain, his hair curling and sticking to his forehead. His boots were still on his feet and his leather doublet looked waterlogged.

"Aramis," he called out in a whisper, but the man didn't stir. "Aramis!" he tried a bit louder.

Still no response.

Chewing his lip, d'Artagnan drifted closer. He glanced towards the door, hoping for the magical arrival of someone to help him. No one appeared.

With a deep breath, he reached out and lightly rested a hand on Aramis' arm.

"Aramis?"

He jumped backward when Aramis woke abruptly, body coiling defensively even as he struck out with his hand, shoving d'Artagnan's arm away.

"Easy!" d'Artagnan soothed, spreading his palms submissively. "It's just me."

Aramis stared at him uncomprehendingly for a moment, brow furrowed and mouth turned down in a scowl. Then, suddenly, recognition arrived and the marksman's gaze flared in panic, snapping over to the door. He pushed himself half up as if prepared to flee if necessary.

"They're not here," d'Artagnan assured immediately, still holding out his hands as if he were settling a startled animal. "They don't even know where you are."

Aramis' eyes shifted back to him, gaze sharp and calculating. He was looking for deception, d'Artagnan realized. Whatever he saw, Aramis seemed to decide d'Artagnan could be trusted and he relaxed. Some of the tension faded from his posture and he reached to rub at his eyes.

"What are you doing here?" he muttered.

"I live here," d'Artagnan replied with a grin. "What's your excuse?"

The unamused glare Aramis fixed him with stole the smile right off his face.

"Your clothes are soaked through. You'll catch your death if you don't change into something dry. I'm under strict orders from Constance to help you."

His explanation prompted Aramis to look down at himself, plucking at his damp doublet.

"Fine." Aramis pushed himself up to sit fully, carefully swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

He moved slowly, every action carefully controlled. He didn't seem drunk, but then, d'Artagnan had never seen Aramis drunk before. He shifted forward to help, but a sharp glare made him pause.

"I don't need your help," Aramis snapped.

Then, with trembling hands, he started working on the ties of his doublet.

Or tried to at least.

D'Artagnan let him fumble with the leather ties for a moment before sighing and shifting forward again, going to one knee in front of him.

"Aramis." He reached out and put his hand over his friend's shaking one. He tried not to be offended when Aramis went rigid at the contact. "Let me help you," he asked softly. "Then I'll leave you alone, I promise."

Aramis worked his jaw, looking unreasonably furious with himself over the whole situation. After a moment longer of hesitation, he shifted his head slightly in acquiescence.

D'Artagnan made quick work of the ties and helped Aramis ease the leather off his shoulders. There was stiffness to Aramis' movements – not unexpected after a brawl, but his expression gave no indication of pain. Doublet now removed, d'Artagnan carried it over to the chair at the small table, hanging it to dry there.

He turned back in time to see Aramis reaching back to grab a handful of his shirt between his shoulder blades. One swift pull later, and the damp fabric was free of his body. D'Artagnan traded the wet shirt for the dry one and let Aramis fumble with getting it on while he draped the wet one over the doublet.

Aramis had somehow managed to get the shirt on correctly by the time d'Artagnan got back to him with only a little smudge of blood on the collar.

"Boots," he directed. Aramis sighed in annoyance as he lifted one foot and then the other as the younger man tugged them off.

d'Artagnan set both boots at the end of the bed and then held out a hand.

Aramis rolled his eyes but let himself be hauled to standing.

Through joint effort they managed to get Aramis out of the wet trousers and into dry ones with only one near-toppling. Aramis dropped back to sit on the bed with a sigh and rubbed at a spot over his right ear.

D'Artagnan watched him for a moment, remembering Constance's scolding words from earlier in the day.

_One of you should have been there._

D'Artagnan couldn't help but feel as if he'd failed Aramis in some way. He'd offered his loyalty and his support and then withdrawn it to follow the others' lead. He hadn't known the true scope of the situation. If he had, he might have done things differently.

At least he hoped he would.

"Aramis…" he started quietly, intent on apologizing immediately.

"Thank you for your help," Aramis interrupted sharply. "Now please go."

D'Artagnan stared at him, mouth still hanging open with his unsaid apology.

"But–"

"_Please_," Aramis nearly growled, but when he shifted his glare up to meet d'Artagnan's gaze there was vulnerability in his eyes. There was pain, guilt, and heartbreak. "Leave."

_Aramis can lie like he can breathe… But his eyes? His eyes always tell the truth._

Porthos had said that to d'Artagnan once. He had laughed at the time and Aramis had loudly protested against the claim. D'Artagnan hadn't realized how valuable an insight those words truly were.

Constance was right – he was coming to realize that was usually the case. Aramis wasn't ready to confront this. And d'Artagnan didn't have the heart to force it, not in the middle of the night when Aramis looked one moment away from falling back to sleep where he sat.

"Okay," he agreed quietly, retreating towards the door.

He pulled it open to find Constance leaning against the wall, wringing her hands together and chewing her lip. She straightened immediately and stepped into the doorway, looking past d'Artagnan to Aramis, who now sat with his head hung low, hands braced against the bed on either side of him.

"I put a blanket and pillow in the sitting room," she told d'Artagnan without looking away from Aramis. "You can sleep there."

D'Artagnan nodded, sliding out of the room, but paused at the hand suddenly on his arm.

He looked back at Constance to find her watching him with fond affection in her eyes.

"Thank you for helping him. You're a good friend."

He smiled, patted her hand with his, and then watched her move farther into the room. When she reached for the bowl of water, he turned back down the hall and walked away. He couldn't help but glance back before he turned the corner, though.

Constance was kneeling in front of Aramis now, a gentle hand on his knee as she spoke. D'Artagnan was too far away to hear what she was saying, but whatever it was earned a slight nod from Aramis. Satisfied that Aramis would be properly looked after, d'Artagnan left them alone.

* * *

Constance carried the bowl of water and the cloths over to Aramis and crouched to set them on the floor. Then, shifting to her knees, she dipped her head to try and get a look at Aramis' face.

"Let's get that blood cleaned up; then you can go back to sleep," she offered gently.

When he didn't immediately respond, she rested a hand on his knee. He went rigid – she was beginning to think that was his natural response to unexpected touch – but it earned her his gaze.

"I promise, I'll be quick."

A long hesitation, and then he nodded.

Satisfied, she reached for one of the cloths and dipped it in the water.

His expression remained disconcertingly stoic as she wiped at the blood that had dried onto his face. Even when she accidentally dragged the cloth over a split in his lip that she hadn't noticed he didn't react. Hardly the most concerning thing at the moment, but she filed it away as something to ruminate over later.

"So," she commented quietly, "do you feel better? Now that you've let someone knock your face in?"

He blinked slowly, eyes shifting to regard her. She wasn't sure he'd answer, but then he shrugged.

"I did…when it was happening."

Constance hid her horror at the confession by looking down at the bowl of water while she rinsed the bloody cloth.

"And now?" she asked around the lump in her throat.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him shrug again.

"That sort of thing is only ever temporary."

She nearly knocked over the bowl of water at the shock of that admission, but caught it before it could tip too far.

She arched a critical brow and looked up at him.

"You need to find a better way to cope," she scolded, reaching to wipe at the blood dried on his cheek, careful not to scrub at the cut across his cheekbone.

"I didn't go looking for it," he defended. "But I also didn't try to avoid it, " he admitted with a rueful sigh. "Porthos hates it when I do that. Well, when I do it alone at least," he added quietly.

She smiled slightly and rinsed the cloth again. She imagined the big Musketeer didn't mind so much when he was in on the brawling.

"As he should," she pointed out.

They both fell quiet for a moment as she rung out the cloth and then set to work on his beard.

"They were looking for you all day," she revealed softly. "I haven't told them you're here," she added quickly when his eyes darted over to the door. "I promised Marc I'd give you time."

Something warm lit his gaze at the mention of the Red Guard.

"He brought me here?" he wondered.

She nodded.

"He seems nice enough…for a Red Guard."

That got a slight grin from him, but it faded too quickly.

With a sigh, she finished wiping away the last of the blood and handed him a new cloth so he could pat his face dry. While he did that, she stood, taking the bowl back to the table and setting it there. Then she returned to his side to take the cloth.

"Get some rest," she advised softly, moving away.

She was a step away from the doorway when his voice cut through the silence.

"Constance."

She turned back, eyebrows raised in question.

He met her gaze and let out a breath.

"Thank you," he offered, voice thick with sincerity. And something else… Something heavy.

She bit her lip, hesitating, but then took a step towards him – then another and another until she was at his side again.

"I know it must feel as if you're all alone in the world right now," she said softly.

He looked away then, but she reached out, turning his face back to look up at her.

"But you're not. I'm right here. And I'm on your side."

Her heart nearly broke at the insecurity that rose in his gaze.

"You don't even know me," he pointed out skeptically.

"I know enough," she countered. His eyebrow rose doubtfully and she couldn't help a small grin. She shifted, crouching down next to him so that he didn't have to look up at her. "I know you have two men who love you as a brother, three if you count d'Artagnan's fumbling attempts at it. Any man who earns that is worthwhile in my book."

When a heartbreaking mixture of pain and betrayal sliced through his eyes, she reached out, wrapping her hand around his.

"And they_ do_ _love you_, Aramis," she insisted quietly. "They're sick over what's happened."

Guilt tightened his expression and she squeezed his hand.

"I didn't tell you that so you could take the blame. I told you so you'd know that when you're ready…they'll be there waiting."

He shifted his gaze to her again, studying her closely.

"Why do you care so much?"

She thought for a moment, framing her reply.

"I married Jacques when I was fifteen years old. I moved to Paris and didn't know anyone but him, and he's never been what one would call 'attentive'."

Something like irritation rolled across his expression. She'd seen that look before – Aramis seemed to wear it perpetually when Jacques was around.

"Anyway…I know what it's like to feel alone in a city full of people."

Understanding softened his gaze as he stared at her and she offered him a small smile.

"You're not alone," she told him again, squeezing his hand to drive the point home.

As he looked at her, she saw a bit of the walls he kept built around himself start to crumble. As if sensing the lapse, he looked away, down at his knees. She watched him clench his jaw to try and regain the lost ground.

"You're allowed to be angry with them," she pointed out. "You're allowed to be _hurt_."

His face shifted farther away, hiding his expression completely. Under her hand, she felt his fingers curl into the mattress.

"Oh, Aramis," she sighed. Then, setting aside whatever cautionary rules of propriety women and men were supposed to follow, she reached for his shoulders, pulling him around to face her and then wrapping him in a hug. She tightened her arms around him securely, ready for an attempted escape.

As she'd predicted, he went momentarily rigid in the embrace. But then, instead of trying to retreat as she'd expected, he nearly melted into her. She tightened her arms even further, curling one hand around the back of his neck.

"You'll get through this," she assured softly.

He didn't make a sound, but she felt his breath catch on the way in and shudder back out. His arms came around her back, hands curling into her shoulders.

"You'll come out stronger," she whispered, confident. "But for now, you're allowed to be sad and angry and hurt and all of those things you're trying to hold at bay. There's no one here but me, and I won't tell a soul."

Another hitched breath and his fingers pressed more solidly against her shoulders. She tightened her arms in response.

Unexpectedly, he spoke, voice raw and shaken.

"They were supposed to be there."

There was betrayal wrapped in the words – an untold story of a promise that had been broken.

Her heart ached for him even as she wished the others were here so she could properly yell at them for causing this.

"I know they were," she replied, tears welling in her eyes when his shoulders shook in her arms.

She could nearly feel how hard he was working to keep his emotions in check, to keep himself together. She silently willed him to just let _go_, to let himself feel whatever he needed to feel so his healing could begin.

"Strength doesn't come from denying it," she whispered. "It comes from _feeling _it and _surviving_ it."

A sharp exhale, and he came undone. His fingers curled into her shoulders as he choked back a sob.

"It's alright," she soothed. "Just let it come."

Finally, he did. She held him tightly as he cried, grieving for the friend whose life he'd taken and for the twenty others who had been taken five years ago. Hurting for the brothers who had abandoned him.

She held on to her own emotions valiantly, steadfastly refusing to let her own tears fall.

He didn't allow himself but a few minutes before he started forcing calming breaths until he seemed steady once again. Then she drew back, brushing the hair out of his eyes and framing his jaw so he had no choice but to look at her.

"Get some sleep," she counseled gently.

He nodded and she stood, moving to the door.

"Thank you," he said again, softly, just as she reached the doorway. "I wouldn't have…" he shook his head. "Without you I wouldn't have…" he trailed off, but he didn't have to spell it out for her.

She smiled warmly.

"Sleep," she insisted.

She watched him ease back down on to the mattress and stretch out. Moving silently, she pulled the door closed and shut it with a soft _click _of the latch.

Then she let loose the tide of emotions she had held at bay until now.

She covered her mouth with her hand and hid a half sob behind it, tears already flowing hot down her cheeks.

"Constance?"

She looked up with a start, surprised to see d'Artagnan only a few feet away.

With another sob she moved towards him, wrapping her arms around him tightly. He immediately returned the embrace. The feeling of his arms coming around her back sent a fissure of warmth and comfort through her. Startled by how _right_ it felt, she forced herself to withdraw, wiping at her cheeks.

"I'm sorry," she offered, voice thick.

"It's alright," he assured softly. "How is he?"

She could only press her lips together, determined to hold back another outburst, and shake her head.

D'Artagnan sighed.

"Maybe things will look better in the morning," he offered. "Go get some rest. You've earned it."

She nodded. He was right – she was exhausted, emotionally and otherwise.

"I'll see you in the morning," she managed to reply quietly before stealing off towards her room.

"Goodnight, Constance," she heard him whisper after her.

For a reason she couldn't fathom, the sound of her name from his lips left her feeling warmed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Chapter 10
> 
> Acceptance, and allowing oneself to grieve, is an important step to begin the healing process. Aramis had to do it, but unfortunately, he's not so good with emotions that, to him, may appear weak (thanks to his dear father). You may remember in my Savoy story, it took weeks for him to properly face what had happened that night and even then, he only did it with Athos and Porthos there to kind of help him along. The same, on a smaller scale, was true here. Constance is a saint. She was the real MVP of this chapter.
> 
> Anyway, now it's time to work our way towards healing. So take a peek at chapter 11 down below and I'll meet you back here tomorrow!  
*****
> 
> "You warned him," d'Artagnan accused.
> 
> "Of course I did," she defended. "What's he done to deserve an ambush?"
> 
> "Constance… We talked about this!"
> 
> "No, you talked. I told you to give him time."
> 
> Porthos felt suddenly so very tired. He sank down into the nearest chair and leaned back with a sigh.


	11. I Cannot Cry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all who commented! Sundew, jamepa, and thingswaitingtobewritten!
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

_When you care about someone, you can't just turn that off because you learn they betrayed you.  
_ **Paula Stokes**

* * *

Aramis woke suddenly, eyes opening and hand searching for a phantom weapon. He studied the strange room he was in and immediately checked the other side of the bed, wondering if he had wandered home with someone.

He was alone, which he found both a relief and a disappointment.

He pushed himself up, looking around properly with a confused furrow in his brow.

It came back to him all at once.

He was at the Bonacieux house. Marc had brought him back after the brawl and Constance had looked after him. He remembered her arms around him, tight and secure – a hug that had rivaled even Porthos' at his best. There had been only two people in his life that had ever managed to hug him so well that he had felt safe, comforted, and valued all at once. His mother had been the first and only one for a long time. Then Porthos had come along and become the other.

And now Constance.

He wasn't sure how she'd done it or why. They barely knew each other. But with her arms wrapped firmly around him, he had come undone. Her warmth and kindness had brought down his carefully erected walls and he'd crumbled under the weight of the last two days in a way that would have infuriated his father.

But she hadn't mocked him for his weakness.

Instead, she'd only hugged him tighter and challenged one of his father's favorite lessons:

_Never let them see weakness._

It had been one of the many edicts over the years in the d'Herblay house, one he had been unable to unlearn.

But Constance had turned that on its head.

_Strength doesn't come from denying it. It comes from feeling it and surviving it._

She'd given him permission to grieve for Marsac. To be hurt and angry with his brothers. To _embrace_ the turmoil instead of denying it. Then she had stayed at his side and faced it with him, proving the truth of her claim that he was not as alone as he felt. She had allowed him to _feel_ and convinced him he could survive doing so.

And he felt stronger for it.

He pulled his boots on. Then he moved across the room to retrieve his doublet and shrugged into it. He wrapped his sash around his waist with a bit more reverence than he had in a while and closed his eyes as he tied it off.

He let himself see each one of their faces, as he always did in these moments where he intentionally kept their memory alive. Now, instead of twenty men, he remembered twenty-one. The thought of Marsac, though still painful, did not threaten to bring him to his knees as it had the day before.

With a deep breath, he donned his weapons and then made for the door.

He followed the sounds of someone moving about in the house until he found himself at the kitchen door, watching Constance cut vegetables.

Perhaps sensing him hovering, she looked up, blowing a stray strand of hair out of her face.

"Good morning," she greeted warmly. "Come sit. I'll get you some breakfast."

"I should go…" he hedged, eyes darting towards the back door.

"None of those shifty looks. You're not going anywhere until I've seen you fed. Sit."

Not particularly wanting to go back to the Garrison anyway, he gave up the battle and sat at the kitchen table. He watched her busy herself around the kitchen, smiling his thanks when she deposited a cup of tea in front of him.

In short order, there was a plate of biscuits in front of him as well.

"I kept them warm as best I could," she announced before going back to her cutting.

"Constance…" He waited until she looked at him, "I wanted to thank you."

"You did. Last night," she reminded kindly.

He tilted his head in agreement.

"That's true but…" He hesitated, unsure of how to explain what he wanted to tell her. "I'm not always good at allowing myself to…" he trailed off, faltering.

"Feel things?" she asked.

He huffed a chuckle at the oversimplification.

"I feel things," he assured. "Joy, amusement, love, friendship… It's not the positive emotions I struggle with."

She nodded encouragingly.

"I was raised by a hard man," he finally admitted with a sigh. "I was taught to hide weakness, to deny it." He saw the horror rise in her eyes. "I know," he assured. He was aware of how twisted and destructive his father's teachings had been. "But some habits die harder than others."

Warm understanding filled her gaze.

"So thank you," he said again, "for helping me navigate it last night. I wouldn't have gotten there on my own."

"You're welcome," she replied softly. But then she bit her lip, eyes shifting towards the back door.

"Now you're doing shifty looks."

"D'Artagnan went to get the others," she blurted guiltily.

Panic flared in his chest and he instinctively rose, maybe to flee, maybe to fight. He honestly wasn't sure.

"I tried to talk him out of it, but he didn't want them to needlessly worry all day when you were safe here, especially after they spent the night doing just that."

Aramis glanced at the door, wondering how much time he had – if he could flee before they arrived. If he even _wanted_ to flee.

"You have time," Constance assured, as if reading his mind. "If you go now, you can get some distance. You don't have to face them yet."

He looked back at her, somehow surprised by the earnest sincerity in her eyes.

"Why warn me?" he asked. "Why not just let them come and be done with it? You've done more than enough for me already."

She gave him a patiently annoyed look.

"Because you don't deserve to be ambushed," she stated plainly as if it should have been obvious. "What you _do_ deserve is to take all the time you need before you face them."

"And you think they ought to be punished a while longer?" he guessed.

She arched a brow.

"Do _you_?" she challenged.

He sighed.

"It's not about that," he admitted. He looked at the door again. "They hated him, you know… And I just…"

"Need time," she finished knowingly.

"Yeah," he agreed quietly.

"Then go," she instructed, walking around the table and picking up two of the biscuits. "Take these and _eat them_."

He took the offering and met her gaze squarely.

"Thank you," he said once more, pouring every bit of gratitude and sincerity he had into the two words.

She smiled warmly.

"What are friends for?"

He found himself smiling in response.

"Go," she insisted.

He started for the door.

"Wait!" she called suddenly, prompting him to turn back. "Tell _me _where you're going. I've not done anything wrong so I don't deserve to worry."

Aramis considered for a moment.

"There are church ruins outside the city, to the west."

She nodded sharply.

"I have no idea where you mean, but at least it's a starting point for when I bring you supper later."

"You don't have to…"

"There's no use arguing. You won't win. Now go. Your horse is in the stable down the road."

He shook his head in amusement and slid out the door.

* * *

Porthos knew, before they ever came through the door, that Aramis had left. Maybe it was his gut, maybe his heart – but he knew.

Constance was bustling around the kitchen as they came in the back door, tossing some vegetables into a pot. She glanced up at them guiltily.

"You warned him," d'Artagnan accused.

"Of course I did," she defended. "What's he done to deserve an ambush?"

"Constance… We talked about this!"

"No, _you _talked. _I_ told you to give him time."

Porthos felt suddenly so very tired. He sank down into the nearest chair and leaned back with a sigh.

"He wasn't ready yet," Constance explained softly.

"What's he so afraid of?" Porthos wondered.

"I don't think he's afraid at all."

All of their eyes turned to Constance, waiting for more. She shrugged and poked at the vegetables in the pot with a spoon.

"He's not afraid," she continued. "He's _sad._ His friend is dead and, no matter how little Marsac meant to all of you, he was important to Aramis."

Porthos looked down at the table, rubbing his finger against a knot in the wood. He hadn't been the most understanding on that front. He had hated Marsac so much that it had blinded him to everything else.

"We know that," d'Artagnan defended quietly.

"Do you?" she challenged, but not harshly. "He knows how you all felt about Marsac. Maybe he's avoiding you because he doesn't want to be made to feel _guilty_ about grieving for him."

"No matter how we felt about Marsac, that is one thing we would never do," Athos pointed out, but even as he said it, Porthos could see him realizing that they _had_ done just that.

Constance's 'thought so' look in their direction suggested she had noticed as well.

Porthos closed his eyes and sighed out a breath.

"Constance, where is he?" he asked softly.

"I'm not telling you."

"I was wrong," Porthos confessed abruptly, looking up to meet her gaze earnestly. "I was wrong to let how I felt about Marsac blind me. I was wrong to let it pull me away from Aramis' side. He needs to know that I _know_ that. He needs to know it won't happen again."

She bit her lip, the first signs of a waver since they'd arrived.

Porthos stood, moving to stand before her.

"I was there before Savoy. I was there after it. I was the one who found him in that forest. I have promised him since that day that he is not alone – that he would never be."

He took her hands gently in his and held her gaze.

"I have failed him in that and I need to make it right. For my own sake, but also for his. Please… Where is he?"

She searched his gaze; her own was skeptical if not a little sympathetic.

And he waited.

* * *

"She held out longer than I expected, honestly."

Porthos looked up from his trek, searching for the owner of the familiar voice. He had passed Esmé a ways back, grazing happily, so he had known his wayward brother was here somewhere.

The ruins were just that – ruins. He picked his way across some rubble and finally spied Aramis sitting with his back against what remained of a wall. It was a good spot, the location gave him a view of the road, and also a spectacular view of the countryside. He'd have to have seen Porthos coming, and the fact that he hadn't left when he did gave Porthos hope.

"You knew she'd tell me?"

"I thought she might, assuming you made your case effectively. Where are the others?"

"Well, you only told her_ 'ruins to the west'_. There are a surprising number. We split up to cover more ground."

Aramis hadn't turned to look at him yet, so Porthos moved closer. Aramis' head was back against the wall, eyes closed with his hands folded loosely in his lap. His hair was a bit wild, but then it always was.

"Where's your hat?" Porthos asked before he could stop himself.

He'd never known Aramis to be without his hat by choice. It was essential in keeping those wild locks in check.

Something odd passed over Aramis' face and he pulled his head forward, opening his eyes to look out over the countryside.

"Did I ever tell you where I got it?"

Porthos took that as permission to come closer. He started to sit down beside him, but a swift glare of warning had him retreating to lean against what was once a stone pillar instead.

Baby steps.

"No. You've had it as long as I've known you, though. Somehow, it's always survived whatever scrapes you get yourself into," Porthos replied easily, forcing himself to look out over the land as well. The hat had been a fixture of Aramis' wardrobe and had the same uncanny knack for survival as it's owner.

"Treville gave it to me." A blunt revelation said with little inflection or feeling one way or another.

Porthos snapped his head around to look at his brother, surprised.

"You never told me that."

Aramis sighed out a breath – a weary, sad sound that gave away the emotion his expression wouldn't.

"He gave it to me the day I swore my fealty to the King and the Musketeers. A gift." A nostalgic, but sad grin curled up the corners of his mouth. "He was like a father to me in those days, the kind I'd always wished for."

There was pain in the smile, telling the story of what had been lost because of Savoy.

"He did it, you know," Aramis revealed.

Porthos absorbed the words with a grimace, closing his eyes.

"Knowingly or not, he betrayed us… He betrayed _me_." Aramis' voice wavered just a bit, but out of sadness or anger, or even a bit of both, Porthos couldn't be sure.

"I know," he allowed. "I bet it feels like there's a lot of that going around."

That earned him Aramis' gaze. There was no recrimination in it, just wary curiosity. Aramis wasn't expecting an apology from him. Aramis never expected anything from anyone. He never seemed to think he deserved any measure of the love and care he gave so freely to others.

But Porthos knew he did. He deserved every bit of sorrow and regret Porthos possessed. He deserved to know he was loved, cared for, and that the pain he was in hadn't gone unnoticed.

He deserved _more._

"I made you a promise once," Porthos began. His heart ached at the pain he saw reflected in Aramis' gaze before the marksman looked away to hide it. "And then I broke it."

Aramis let out a sharp breath, as if the confession brought him physical pain. Porthos chewed his lip before drifting slowly closer.

"I hated him, you know. I hated him for what he did to you."

Aramis kept his gaze averted and didn't reply. So Porthos went on, stepping closer.

"I know I let that blind me. All I could see was his side or the captain's, and I knew which side I wanted to be on."

Now Aramis looked pointedly away to hide whatever reaction he had to the words. Porthos used the moment to finish his approach, crouching down only an arms' length away.

"What I couldn't see was _you_ – right there in the middle, caught between them."

He watched Aramis' jaw clench.

"It's not the first time you've been there, though, is it? In the middle? He and I never got on well. We always pulled you in two different directions. But you've always said it was never about me or him. I never understood what you meant by that."

He willed Aramis to look at him, but he didn't.

"But you only ever meant you didn't want to choose. You would have been a brother to us both if we had only let you."

Aramis closed his eyes.

"So it was never between Marsac and Treville for you, was it? You loved them both – a man who had been your brother and a man who had been your father."

Aramis blew out a sharp breath and turned his head, pinning Porthos with a glare.

"Do you have a point?" he demanded. But while there was frustration in his voice, there was pain in his eyes.

"I failed you," Porthos confessed, voice catching with the weight of his own sorrow, his regret. He watched moisture well up in Aramis' eyes at the words. "It was never Treville's side or Marsac's. There was only ever one side that mattered – _yours_. _That_ was where I belonged and I couldn't see it. And I _failed you_."

Aramis' expression trembled, threatening to break.

"I left you alone to face this, and that is something I promised you would never happen."

Aramis looked down now, but not before Porthos saw a fissure break across his expression. On a normal day, Aramis would never allow such a lapse. But today was not normal. These last days had brought Aramis to his knees and Porthos hadn't been there to help him up.

Porthos wondered how he hadn't noticed it until now. Looking back, he realized it had always been there, plain as day: a trembling hand here and a restless fidgeting with his hat there; an anxious tangling of his fingers through his hair, the wild looks in his eyes, and the desperation in his voice.

But Porthos hadn't seen it.

"I know that I hurt you," he whispered, pain slicing through his heart when what he could see of Aramis' expression tightened. "I know that I betrayed you and that I let you down when you needed me the most."

Aramis' hands were clenched in his lap now and he had carefully kept his face lowered so Porthos couldn't see it. That could only mean that there was something to see, that his carefully controlled emotions weren't so controlled anymore.

Porthos waited, but Aramis remained uncharacteristically silent.

"'Mis…please say something."

"What would you like me to say?"

Porthos went still at the simmering anger in Aramis' voice.

"I know you're upset with me–"

Aramis' head snapped up now, expression flush with anger, but in his eyes Porthos saw the deeper truth. He saw the true depth of the pain he and Athos had caused, that Marsac and Treville had caused. Pain that Aramis had been left to face alone.

"Of course I'm upset with you!" Aramis snapped.

Without warning, he suddenly vaulted up, stalking a few steps away to create space between them.

"Aramis…" Porthos rose, holding out a calming hand.

The marksman whirled, pinning him in place with his glare.

"You were supposed to be different."

Porthos flinched, both at the words and the steely fury they were spoken with.

"I know," he agreed quietly.

"You were supposed to be _different_ than the rest of them! Different from Marsac, from Treville, from my _father_. But these last days? You were just more of the same."

"I know."

"I was meant to be able to count on you. You swore to me, years ago, that I could _count on you!_"

"I know."

"'_When their ghosts come back to haunt you, and you can't remember what's real and what isn't, and you start feeling like you're alone again, just remember one thing: I'm here,_" Aramis quoted ruthlessly, and Porthos felt the blood drain from his face. "Sound familiar?"

Porthos could only nod as he remembered speaking those exact words five years ago over the graves of their twenty fallen brothers. He wanted to look away, to shield himself from the raw pain in Aramis' eyes, from the anger on his face. But he didn't. He deserved the guilt that pain brought. He deserved the anger.

"Well, they came back, Porthos. _So_ _where were you?_"

"Not where I belonged," he answered softly.

The anger drained out of Aramis' face in a breath, and without it to hide behind, all that remained was the pain. Instinctively, Porthos shifted a step closer. When Aramis didn't immediately retreat, Porthos took another step.

"You had to know the truth," Porthos stated. "I'm sorry I didn't understand that when it mattered."

Aramis shook his head wearily and looked away, closing his eyes. He drew in a deep, cleansing breath and let it out slowly. Porthos could see the defenses rebuilding. Aramis had never been able to allow himself vulnerability for long.

"You know it's hard to stay angry with you when you're being so damn contrite," Aramis stated abruptly, shifting a sideways look at him.

Relief left Porthos feeling weak and a bit giddy. He fought down the relieved grin that wanted to sprout on his face and instead remained earnest.

"Does that mean you'll forgive me?"

Aramis shifted his gaze away again, looking out over the horizon.

"Porthos, don't you know by now that I would forgive you anything?"

Those words, spoken as if they were the most obvious thing in the world, brought hot tears to Porthos' eyes. He blinked them away before they could fall and swallowed down the emotion trying to rise.

"I'm so sorry, 'Mis," he whispered, his voice breaking despite his efforts.

"You said that already."

He felt as if he had to keep saying it, over and over, until Aramis didn't look so worn down and wounded anymore. Until he felt like he'd made up for his failure in brotherhood.

"I meant it."

Something in his voice earned him Aramis' gaze again. When their eyes met, Porthos' breath caught up in chest. Aramis' eyes usually told the truth when the man himself was unwilling to do so. And Porthos could see the pain in them. He could see the _heartbreak_, the guilt. He could see the _hurt_. Hurt he had caused – he and Athos.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered again, taking a step forward.

Before Aramis could even consider retreating Porthos wrapped him in his arms in the tightest, warmest hug he could manage. Aramis, normally the most tactile of all of them, was stiff in the embrace, neither returning it nor rejecting it.

"I'm sorry it was Treville," Porthos murmured. And God, he was. "I'm sorry for the choice Marsac forced on you," he went on. It had been an awful choice between two horrible endings. "And I'm so sorry that I wasn't there," he finished.

Finally, Aramis shifted, his arms moving to return the hug. Porthos tightened his own arms in response. Aramis had always liked hugs, seeming to nearly melt into them most of the time as if he were starved for touch and the hug was his salvation.

Porthos, Aramis had always claimed, gave some of the best.

"You alright?" Porthos asked softly.

Aramis' arms tightened and he huffed a sad chuckle over Porthos' shoulder.

"It's been an unfortunate few days."

Porthos chuckled lightly in return and pulled away, but only far enough to rest a hand on the back of Aramis' neck and look him in the eye.

"Understated a bit, don't you think?"

Aramis huffed and shrugged a shoulder, mouth quirking slightly.

"I need a drink," he decided with a sigh.

Porthos let out a deep breath and shifted, throwing an arm over Aramis' shoulder and pulling him back towards where they'd left the horses.

"Brother, you read my mind."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Chapter 11
> 
> This was originally going to be 14 chapters, but I felt what I originally had sectioned out for Chapter 11 was too short, so I combined it and 12. That being said, there are now 13 chapters, instead of 14. And you've seen some resolution! Yay! Healing!
> 
> Now, for a preview of Chapter 12!  
*****
> 
> "But it was not him you were asking me to trust. It was you. You, who knew Treville best in those days. You, who had suffered in Savoy and survived. You, who needed the truth, who deserved it. You only asked me to trust your judgement, your instincts. You only asked me to stand by you and pursue that truth, the truth you could feel just out of reach. And despite feeling the nearness of that truth as well, I refused. And in that, I failed you."
> 
> Aramis jaw clenched and his gaze dropped away.
> 
> Athos leaned forward, wrapping his hand around Aramis' wrist and prompting him to look up again.
> 
> "You deserved the truth, Aramis. I should have pursued it with you, no matter what it was, no matter who it involved. I should have trusted that you would do the right thing with that knowledge."


	12. Because I Know That's Weakness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all who took a moment to comment! Sundew, jamepa, and issa!

* * *

_Shattered legs may heal in time, but some betrayals fester and poison the soul.  
_ **George R. R. Martin**

* * *

"You should eat something," Porthos murmured as they sat around a table at a tavern near the Garrison. Across from him, Athos shifted a glance over at Aramis who sat between them. In the final seat, d'Artagnan perked up.

"Do you want something different than that stew? I'll get you something." D'Artagnan nearly vaulted from his chair and hurried towards the bar.

"He keeps doing that," Aramis observed with a perplexed frown as he watched the boy wait for one of the serving girls to be free. "He nearly tripped over himself to refill my wine earlier."

"He feels guilty," Porthos explained. "It makes him feel better to be helpful."

Aramis hummed and looked back down at his stew, pushing it around in his bowl with a spoon.

Athos felt Porthos' gaze on him, but he couldn't tear his gaze away from watching Aramis. They hadn't gotten a chance to really speak yet. Aramis and Porthos had already been at the tavern, half a bottle of wine already drunk, when Athos and d'Artagnan arrived. Other than a brief hug and a whispered 'I'm sorry', they hadn't made their peace yet.

"I've got to go relieve myself of some of this wine," Porthos announced suddenly, reaching out to give Aramis' shoulder a squeeze before rising and walking away.

Athos hardly spared a glance to watch him go before returning his attention to Aramis. The marksman seemed to have found something truly fascinating within the confines of his bowl because he refused to look up from it as he stirred his spoon around.

Athos drew in a breath. He disliked emotional conversation. He much preferred to keep his feelings to himself. But now was not the time for reticence.

Aramis deserved his words.

"I forgot you," he stated abruptly.

Aramis went still, spoon halfway through a circuit in the bowl.

"I always seem to do that at the worst times, don't I?"

"Athos, there's no need–" Aramis started, stirring his stew again but not looking up.

"There is _every _need," he interrupted firmly. "Do you remember when we met?" he asked.

Aramis didn't reply, but seemed to be listening. He wasn't going to make this easy. Athos couldn't imagine that he'd made it easy for Porthos, either. Nothing was ever easy with Aramis, nothing but forgiveness. It was easy to assume his forgiveness without doing anything to earn it.

"I remember the exact moment when I pieced together everything I had learned about you two and realized what had happened to you. When I realized what Marsac had done."

Aramis put the spoon down with a decisive movement and leaned back, fixing him with a wary, but open look. Athos knew it was permission to continue, but a warning to tread carefully.

"I've never hated a man without ever knowing him. Not until that moment," Athos went on. "It was strange for me to feel so strongly. I hadn't truly let myself feel much in those days. You and Porthos changed all of that. When I met you, I saw a man who was brave and strong. Over those hours together, I learned you had a heart like no one I'd ever met. You were a man who would sacrifice himself for another, even a stranger, without hesitation. How could anyone ever betray a man like you?"

Aramis' brow furrowed and he looked down, crossing his arms over his chest.

"You never could take a compliment from those closest to you," Athos teased gently. That earned him a bashful glance and an eyeroll. "Over time, my hatred for him didn't fade. Instead, it only grew stronger. And through the years, we became more than acquaintances or comrades or even friends… We became brothers. And I realized I love you."

Aramis' eyes snapped up to meet his, taken aback by the blunt admission. Aramis was always so surprised when some revealed they truly cared. One day, they would undo what Julien d'Herblay had done. They would convince Aramis he was worthy of all they love they had to give him and more. One day, a confession of what he meant to them would not be met with surprise.

"And because I love you, I _hated_ him." Aramis held his gaze now, eyes intense. Drawing in a breath, Athos pushed on. "So I suppose I didn't forget you at all; I remembered you too well. I remembered watching you struggle and heal and overcome. I remembered witnessing the strength it took for you to trust again, all because of him. How could I ever trust the word of someone like him? Someone who would do that to _you_?"

Aramis was breathing hard, but he still only stared at him. Neither encouraging Athos to continue nor forcing him to stop.

"But it was not him you were asking me to trust. It was you. You, who knew Treville best in those days. You, who had suffered in Savoy and survived. You, who _needed_ the truth, who _deserved_ it. You only asked me to trust your judgement, your instincts. You only asked me to stand by you and pursue that truth, the truth you could _feel_ just out of reach. And despite feeling the nearness of that truth as well, I refused. And in that, I failed you."

Aramis jaw clenched and his gaze dropped away.

Athos leaned forward, wrapping his hand around Aramis' wrist and prompting him to look up again.

"You deserved the truth, Aramis. I should have pursued it with you, no matter what it was, no matter who it involved. I should have trusted that you would do the right thing with that knowledge."

And Aramis had. With all the information given to him, Aramis had chosen honor over revenge. He had chosen forgiveness over all else. As he always had.

"Though I could never deserve it, I beg your forgiveness. I should have believed in _you_, Aramis. I should have trusted you. I should have been at your side. Forgive me."

Something in Aramis' eyes had softened as Athos spoke, and now there was something fond and warm there.

"Athos, you need never ask forgiveness of me."

Athos' chest tightened and he clenched his jaw against the emotion threatening to rise past his stoic defenses.

"I must always ask," he countered softly. "Because it is never assumed, and never owed."

"But _always_ given freely," Aramis cut in quietly, a ghost a smile turning up the corners of his mouth. "I don't ever think I've heard you talk so much at once."

Athos grinned a little, but then sobered, holding Aramis' gaze earnestly.

"You deserved so much more than words. I'm sorry it's too late to offer anything else."

"Is it safe to return?" Porthos asked with a hesitant grin as he came back to the table.

"Did you think me a threat?" Aramis replied with a jokingly affronted huff.

"It was Athos doing all the talking that worried me. You know he's not good with this sort of thing."

Athos' brows rose in amused offense.

"You've both done more than your fair share of talking over the last few hours," Aramis replied, a fond smile warming his face.

"Yes, well, we had a lot that needed saying," Porthos defended.

"I'm sorry that I avoided you."

"No, none of that," Athos argued. "You owe us nothing. It was no less than we deserved."

"No, that wasn't why I…" Aramis shook his head and leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the table and looking back and forth between them before settling his gaze back on the stew. He absently picked up the spoon and pushed it around in the bowl again. "I wasn't trying to punish you."

"You didn't want to see us, though," Porthos reminded.

"No…I didn't."

"You might have to spell it out for us, 'Mis. Because it felt a bit like a punishment."

"It wasn't about you at all… Not completely at least," Aramis explained. "By the end of it all Marsac just wanted it to be over. He wanted me to kill him. He forced my hand and made _sure _it was me. I knew you both would only hate him more for that."

Athos exchanged a glance with Porthos and saw the same simmering fury in the larger man's eyes that he felt in his own heart. Aramis had loved Marsac as a brother. They knew that. And more importantly, they knew Marsac had known that. And yet he had forced Aramis to do the unthinkable anyway.

"But I didn't want to hate him," Aramis went on. "I wanted to mourn him."

Athos looked down, feeling guilty all over again, though he knew that was not Aramis' intention. What had they proven during all of this except that their hatred of Marsac had been worth more than anything else? Aramis had made his choice based on their own behavior. How could they ever blame him for that?

"And after that?" Porthos asked softly. "You still avoided us."

Aramis finally looked up with a sigh, meeting Porthos' gaze.

"I was grieving and angry and hurt and just…_alone_," he admitted. "I felt alone."

"That's our fault, not yours." The strain in Porthos' voice drew Athos' gaze to the larger man. Porthos' eyes were wet with unshed tears and full of earnest regret.

"He's right," Athos agreed quietly. "The way we had behaved concerning Marsac, how could you ever have thought you could turn to us?"

Aramis looked back and forth between them, something of the storm in his gaze seeming to calm at last. Athos held his gaze even as d'Artagnan returned to the table, placing a plate of bread and cheese in the middle.

"I didn't know Marsac, not as anything but what Savoy turned him into. But any man who you found worthy of friendship and brotherhood deserves to be mourned," Athos decided.

"I may have hated him," Porthos added gently, "but you loved him. Athos is right. That makes him worthy in my book."

Aramis' gaze snapped over to Porthos in shock, eyes wide and glistening with unshed tears.

"To Marsac," d'Artagnan announced, lifting his cup, "and the twenty other souls lost in Savoy."

Athos lifted his cup.

"To Marsac."

Porthos reached out and wrapped a hand around Aramis' shoulder and then lifted his own glass.

"To Marsac," he stated firmly.

Something cracked in Aramis' expression and he looked down to hide it. But then he cleared his throat and raised his head again, eyes glistening with unshed moisture. He reached for his cup and lifted it to join the others.

"To Marsac."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Chapter 12
> 
> That one was a bit shorter, I know, BUT you got closure with Athos! Yay! I particularly like the end of this chapter, where they toast Marsac. It feels very much like a 'put your money where your mouth is' moment in that they can SAY how they would have done things different all they want, but actually putting aside their personal feelings to honor the man Aramis had loved like a brother really shows they MEANT everything they'd said.
> 
> Only one chapter to go!
> 
> Tune in tomorrow for the conclusion! Here's a preview!  
*****
> 
> "You made peace with the others," Treville realized.
> 
> Aramis nodded.
> 
> "And now I've come to make peace with you," he replied.


	13. Because of You, I am Afraid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who commented! thingswaitingtobewritten, sundew, jamepa, Soccergem, and issa! I appreciate you all taking the time!
> 
> Here we are at the final chapter of this story! I hope you've enjoyed the ride!
> 
> The song the chapter titles was based off of is Kelly Clarkson's "Because of You" which I thought fitting concerning Aramis and Marsac's relationship, tragic as it was.
> 
> Last thing, I particularly like this final starting quote, especially for Aramis, as I feel it fits him pretty well in relation to this story.

* * *

_One day you will learn that love does not always betray you.  
_ **Mary Balogh**

* * *

They all stepped out into the streets together, Aramis sandwiched between Athos and Porthos, as he had seemed to find himself consistently for the last few hours. They began to herd him towards the direction of the Garrison, both bidding goodnight to d'Artagnan who was drifting in the direction of the Bonacieux house.

Aramis slid out from between them, towards d'Artagnan.

"I'll meet you both at home later," he called to the others. "I'll walk with d'Artagnan."

Athos and Porthos exchanged a slightly panicked look and Aramis smiled warmly.

"I promise. I'll join you later. I need to speak to Constance."

Though still looking reluctant, Athos nodded and pulled at Porthos' shoulder to get him moving. Satisfied, Aramis fell into step beside d'Artagnan. After a few moments, d'Artagnan cleared his throat.

"I'm so sorry, Aramis."

"What on earth for?"

The boy slid a guilty look at him and Aramis sighed, reaching to squeeze the young man's shoulder.

"What did you do but offer your loyalty and friendship when I asked for it?"

"But I abandoned you, just like everyone else."

"You followed Athos and Porthos' lead. Any normal day, that is the absolute best thing you could do."

"But this wasn't normal," d'Artagnan lamented. "I offered you loyalty and then turned my back on you."

"You didn't know the whole situation," Aramis pointed out. "You only tried to do the right thing."

"But it was wrong."

"As we all are from time to time."

D'Artagnan looked at him skeptically.

"You aren't angry with me?"

"No, I'm not."

"But you were angry with Athos and Porthos?"

Aramis sighed, coming to a stop and reaching out to stop d'Artagnan, too.

"I was," he explained. "But there is history there, concerning Marsac and Savoy and all of it. History you weren't a part of. I had expectations of them, ones which they fell short of. So, I _was _angry and perhaps should learn to expect less in the future. But you weren't a part of that, _mon ami_. You only tried to do the right thing so how could I ever be angry at you for that?"

"You shouldn't," d'Artagnan replied.

Aramis frowned.

"What?"

"You shouldn't expect less," d'Artagnan went on softly, eyes earnest. "You deserve more, not less. We failed you… We _all_ failed you. But it was a mistake. Don't expect less because of it. Don't treat this as a reflection of your value to us."

Aramis blinked at him, taking a moment to try and figure out what d'Artagnan was talking about. It had been an offhand comment, one built on a lifetime of learning not to expect anything from anyone – to rely on no one but himself. Athos and Porthos had chipped away at that over the years, but had not, apparently, managed to stamp it out completely.

"I won't," he promised.

With a firm nod, d'Artagnan started forward again, leaving Aramis to jog a step to catch up.

* * *

D'Artagnan knocked and then pushed the door to the boarding house open ahead of them. Aramis stepped through the door behind him but hesitated in the entry. Constance appeared from the kitchen, a cup of tea in her hand. Her eyes lit up at the sight of them.

"I'm going to bed," d'Artagnan announced. Then with a look at Aramis, "See you tomorrow?"

Aramis nodded in assurance and watched the boy disappear towards his room.

"I'm so sorry," Constance blurted. "He just looked so heartbroken and earnest. I had to tell him."

Aramis strode forward, taking her free hand in his.

"Thank you," he offered sincerely.

Some of the tension faded from her posture and she smiled at him.

"You look better."

She pulled him towards the kitchen and started busying herself making him a cup of tea.

"Well, despite their lack of practice, Athos and Porthos are quite good at apologies."

He accepted the cup of tea with a grateful smile.

He took a long drink, feeling the liquid warm him from the inside.

"Sit, I'll get you something to eat."

"Constance," he set the tea on the table and reached for her hand, stopping her before she could move away. "I wanted to thank you.'

"There's no need," she assured warmly.

"There is every need," he argued gently. "I don't know where I would have gone… What I would have done if you hadn't convinced me to come in that night." She smiled shyly. "I felt so very alone in those hours. I had just buried a dear friend and felt adrift and abandoned. So _thank you _for being my tether. For being my friend when you had no obligation to make me your problem."

She set her own tea aside and gripped his hands back tightly.

"You are no one's _problem_. What you are is a good man…and a friend. Thank you for letting me help you."

He smiled and spread his arms.

"May I?"

She laughed and moved into the hug.

"You always did strike me as a hugger," she teased.

"One of the many traits I inherited from my mother."

She stepped back and smiled brightly at him.

"Go home, to your brothers, and get some sleep," she instructed kindly, taking his arm and steering him towards the front door. "Take this for the road," she pushed a biscuit into his hand.

"My dear Constance, I believe this is the start of a wonderful friendship."

* * *

Treville looked up when a knock came at his door. He peered through the candlelit darkness and frowned. It was quite late, or rather early now. But he did not make it a habit to turn away his men, no matter the hour.

"Come in!"

The door opened and, to Treville's great relief, Aramis stepped through.

Last he had heard, nobody had been able to locate the marksman for the last two days.

There was still a weariness to his posture, but something of the weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He looked better than he had when they last spoke.

"You made peace with the others," Treville realized.

Aramis nodded.

"And now I've come to make peace with you," he replied.

Heart clenching, Treville motioned him to sit.

"I won't apologize," Treville stated, feeling as if he had to make that clear. "I kept the truth from you to protect you and would do it again."

Aramis' lips quirked a bit as he sank into the chair opposite Treville's desk.

"I know," he allowed. But then he sobered a bit and a shadow settled in his face. "What have I told you about my father?"

Treville narrowed his eyes curiously.

"Not much. Only ever that he had disowned you and you carried no family name because of it."

Aramis nodded slightly.

"He was a hard man, a cruel one. My years in his home were the worst of my life."

Treville clenched his jaw, heart hammering at the confirmation of what he had always suspected. There were pieces of Aramis' personality that could only have been formed through hard taught lessons. There had always been a lack of self-worth that Treville knew had to have been rooted in his childhood. To hear the confirmation, however vague, was startling.

"He was also a liar."

Treville barely held back a flinch.

"He lied to me about a great many things. All in order to manipulate me along a path he had chosen."

Treville refused to avert his eyes, no matter how close to home that hit.

"Does that sound familiar?" Aramis prodded.

Treville had no defense.

"Do you remember when we met?" the marksman asked abruptly.

"Of course I do," Treville answered softly.

"You were so angry that I was being used. That I was merely a pawn in a game so much larger than myself. I remember watching you rant and just feeling so…bemused."

"Why?" Treville wondered.

"Because that was the first time since I'd left my mother that anyone had ever deemed my life of value."

Not for the first time, Treville wished to kill the one who had taught Aramis he had no worth. But now, at last, he had a figure to aim that hatred at – Aramis' father.

"In the years that followed, you became a father to me. The kind of father I had always wished for."

Treville clenched his jaw, surprised by the marksman's candor.

"I trusted you...in a way I hadn't let myself trust anyone in a long time. And then you turned your back on me…just as he did."

Treville held his gaze, facing the consequences of his choices.

"It was never the violence of my childhood that I couldn't forgive him for. It was his lies and his betrayals. Tossing me aside as if I didn't matter at all to him in the end."

Treville braced himself. This was the moment were Aramis would tell him he would never forgive him.

"But I can give you what I could never give him," Aramis said instead.

Treville's eyes widened in surprise.

"All you've ever done is try to protect me. From that very first day we met, you've been trying. And you've never stopped…even when it hurt you. Even when it hurt me. You've always protected me. My father could never say the same. And that is why I will always hate him…and love you."

Treville's throat tightened and his heart clenched in his chest. He stood abruptly, moving around his desk. He grasped Aramis by the shoulder and pulled him up, casting aside propriety to wrap the younger man in a hug.

Aramis returned it immediately.

"I forgive you," Aramis said into his shoulder. "I will always forgive you."

"And I would not have done it if it were not the only way," Treville whispered back fiercely.

He withdrew and cleared his throat, but couldn't force himself to retreat completely. Instead, he settled a hand on the back of Aramis' neck.

"Turning away from you was the hardest thing I have ever done," he confessed. "And not a day goes by that I don't long for how we once were."

Aramis shook his head slightly, eyes pained.

"I thought… I thought you must have hated me for surviving. For being a constant reminder to you of what Savoy had cost."

Treville tightened his hand on Aramis' neck.

"As you have loved me, I have always loved you as the son I would never have. _Always. _Your survival is the only thing that has made these last five years bearable."

As he always did, Aramis looked taken aback by the blunt declaration of his worth, of his value to Treville.

"I wish we could go back," Aramis admitted. "But we can't. My place is not on your side anymore. This," he motioned at Treville's desk "is not my future. I could never do it again. I could never hold men's lives in my hands like that again."

"I know," Treville allowed. But as he stared fondly at the man before him, he knew the words didn't ring quite true. No matter how he feared it now, Aramis was born for leadership. He was destined for it. But he would have to learn to trust himself again before that future could ever be realized. "And even if we can never be as we once were…then perhaps we can at least move forward."

Aramis' mouth quirked into a weary, but hopeful smile.

"I like the sound of that."

* * *

Porthos looked up from where he'd been absently shuffling a deck of cards when the door opened. On the bed next to the door, Athos looked up from the book he'd been reading. They both let out a small breath of relief when Aramis stepped over the threshold and softly closed the door behind him.

None of them said anything as Aramis moved across the room to his own bed, carefully laying his saddle bags across the blanket.

Porthos' hands continued to shuffle the cards he held, though his focus was completely on Aramis as the marksman untied one of the bags and flipped the flap of leather out of the way.

He nearly dropped the entire deck when Aramis reached in and withdrew his long-absent hat. The feather was a little bent and the top a bit smashed in, but with a few careful touches, Aramis smoothed the hat to its natural shape. Then, without a word, he hooked it over the bedpost - the same resting place the hat had been kept for years. Porthos knew then that whatever had driven Aramis to hide the hat away had been mended.

With a deep, whole body sigh, Aramis finally turned to face them.

"Porthos, deal me in. I haven't properly practiced my bluffing in quite some time. Athos, join us and bring that bottle of wine you think I don't know you keep hidden in the mattress."

Porthos found himself smiling as Aramis threw himself down onto Porthos' bed next to him, toeing off his boots and folding his legs up onto the mattress as he'd done a hundred times in the past. On a normal day, Porthos might have teased Aramis about his impressive ability to lie and that 'practice' wasn't something he needed. But as it was, he wasn't willing to push the balance of the peace between them, not even in jest.

Athos dragged over a chair and held out the requested bottle of wine to Aramis with a small quirk to his lips.

Porthos' smile grew as he started dealing out their first hand. Whatever had been shattered between them over these last days had finally started mending. There were still a few jagged pieces and they still needed some time to heal fully, but they were whole again. They were together. And in the end, that would always be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of The Darkness of Days Past
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this little companion/tag to the episode and that it enriched the already great story. I do so love me some Aramis angst (and whump, as you can see, I couldn't resist even in this story) so this was a joy to write. On to the next!
> 
> Thank you all for joining me on this journey! Until next time!


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